


The Abominable Bride (alternative)

by 221b_hound



Series: The Pure and Simple Truth [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arson, Boxing Day, Canon Divergence - The Abominable Bride, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Multi, Polyamory, Protective Siblings, Rating change - mature to explicit, References to Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-02 03:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10208102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: In the early hours of Boxing Day, a thick fog lays over the Holmes cottage. Mary awakes to the creeping sensation that she can hear ghostly crying. What awaits is worse than ghosts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As for the others in the Alternative series, tags for characters, relationships and others will be added as the story progresses.

Mary woke with a chill on her skin, arms and feet, flesh goosepimpling even under her pyjamas. She groped for a blanket. Her seeking hand found nothing but a sheet.

She opened her eyes onto John’s back. Unusually, he was asleep on his side. The small of his back was a pale strip in the darkened room, where his pyjama shirt had ridden up. The sheet didn’t cover him at all and he was burrowed into warmth on the other side.

 _You’re never warm enough in English winter, are you love?_ She thought with a fond smile. Best get up and sort out the blankets, she supposed. The pressure in her bladder was another reason to rise.

She rose and pushed her feet into slippers. She turned back to the bed and smiled as she finally saw the whole picture.

Sherlock, still with them, asleep on his back and the blankets and duvet all in a heap on the floor. John was spooning him, the pair of them looking innocent as boys with their pyjama shirts rucked up and bare feet. John’s arm crooked across Sherlock’s chest and his face pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Carefully, Mary pulled the sheet across the two of them, then settled a thin blanket and then the duvet over them, leaving enough room for her to be warm when she got back.

 _My darlings_ , she thought, aching with love for them, even though they'd stolen all the blankets.

And all unbidden, the hairs on the back of her neck all stood up. A slow and creeping shudder ran up every nerve, from the arch of her foot, crawling the length of her spine and burrowing down into her heart like a worm. She shuddered, her body trying to shake the feeling off.

_Magnussen is dead._

Comfort and horror in a single thought. The memory of scent – unspeakable things burning in a fireplace – hit the back of her throat and she fled for the bathroom. She made it in time to be sick in the loo. She flushed, rinsed her mouth. Sat to pee and pressed the heels of her cold hands to her forehead. The bathroom was even colder than the bedroom. It felt like relief.

Something scratched inside her brain. A horrible wailing, distant, hardly real. Her body shuddered again, the crawling shiver starting in her diaphragm, spreading out through her chest and arms like an infection trying to surface.

_It’s nothing. You did a terrible thing to put an end to things more terrible. Breathe._

She flushed again, washed her hands. Splashed cold water on her face.

That sound again. Like a worm in her ear. Through the tiny bathroom window she saw only pitch darkness. Not even stars.

And once more, that distant sound. A ghostly sob.

Mary swallowed. Surely that wasn’t a sound inside her head? Surely that was from outside? What kind of night animal made a sound like that? A fox? An owl?

Cautiously, Mary turned out the light and stepped down the hall, through the living room. The curtains were up. The nearest neighbours were far across the meadow. Not that she could have seen if they were right next door, with that thick mist hanging heavy around the garden.

At the window itself, the chill seeped inside. No stars were visible through the glass; the shapes of the trees were mere hints, a change in the pattern of the mist. Mary could make out the stone wall around the cottage only as an indistinct alteration in colour. Beyond it were the cars in which they’d arrived from London. A hundred years ago, it felt.

_It is the hour of darkness where the powers of evil are exalted._

Where on earth had she read that line?

And a sound, like a muffled cry of grief, filtered through that window with the cold, and in the formless fog beyond the safety of the cottage, a square of light glimmered.

Mary stared. Her hands clenched. She thought, _I am not some squealing nervous idiot, to go waking the menfolk because there’s a light in the yard and a ghost crying in the night._

Some fear paralyses; other fear galvanises. Mary passed by the fireplace and took up the poker. She went to the front door and put on her red coat. She opened the door onto darkness and fog and stepped out, holding her weapon and ready to strike, her steps low, testing for obstacles.

At the metal gate she saw it again. The square of light. The sound of weeping.

The gate creaked as she opened it and the weeping stopped.

Mary stole up to the car parked behind those belonging to the occupants of the house. As she reached for the driver’s side door, the person within sensed her approach, looked up, opened her mouth to scream.

Mary wrenched the door open, dropping the poker as she did.

“Don’t scream, you’ll wake the household!”

The woman’s mouth snapped shut as she stared, round-eyed, waxen-faced. “You looked like a ghost creeping up that path. You scared the fuck out of me.”

“ _I_ scared _you_.” Mary scowled at the woman. Then some of the puzzle fell into place. Same blue eyes; same shaped ears, though the one she could see was pierced. No earring, though. She had narrower and softer jaw, longer hair shot through with much more noticeable grey. “You’re Harry Watson.”

Harry Watson blinked at Mary, and now her eyes were adjusting to contrast of darkness without, the yellow cabin light glowing within, Mary could see Harry’s face blotched and tracked with tears.

“I came to. To see…”

“John’s asleep.”

“…Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary’s brow furrowed. “Why do you need Sherlock?”

“I think…” said Harry, and she hiccupped as a surge of misery rose up in her again, choking her voice, sending tears down her face again. “I think I’ve done something terrible. But I can’t remember. And I’m scared to go in, in case he tells me what I’ve done. And I’m scared to go home in case I do something else. I’m so scared. God. I'm so scared.”

Mary reached out to touch Harry’s shoulder, and Harry began sobbing in earnest.

“What makes you think you’ve done anything bad?”

Weeping, shaking, Harry lifted her hands from her lap and held them for Mary to see. Sooty. Scratched. The palms of both hands reddened, blistered. As though she had plunged them into a burning hearth.

Mary could hear Magnussen’s voice, talking to John: _Your sister the arsonist._

“I think,” said Harry, inhaling on tears, exhaling a low whimper of fear, “I might have. Burned. Burned.” She hiccupped again, choking on the horror of it, “ _People_.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the night, John treats his sister's injuries while Sherlock starts to piece the story together. And then a hated name comes up to make the whole thing that much worse.

“How the hell did you drive here from London with your hands like that?” Mary had guided Harry into the house, turning lights on as she went. She sat Harry at the kitchen table and took a hand-crocheted blanket from the soft chair in the corner to drape over Harry’s shoulders.

“I don’t know,” said Harry. She was shivering with pain and distress. Her face was heat-reddened too, her eyebrows and lashes singed, skin smeared in ash in places.  She looked awful. “I woke up. And my hands were like this. I was too groggy to understand anything to begin with and then I kept seeing… seeing…” She gulped down any description of what she’d seen. “So I got in the car and drove to Baker Street. Knocked that landlady of theirs out of bed. God _damn_ , she’s got a temper,” Harry tried to laugh at the memory. “I told her who I was and she told me where to find Holmes.”

“Groggy, you said?”

The voice from the doorway made them both look up. Sherlock, woken no doubt by the noise. At his shoulder, John.

“Jesus, Harry, what happened?” John shouldered past Sherlock and took his sister carefully by the wrists to examine the damage. “Stay put, I’ll get my kit.”

While John dashed to fetch both his own medical bag and the more sophisticated kit he’d been using for Sherlock’s treatment, Sherlock leaned on the door jamb and studied Harry like a specimen.

Harry stared back, half defiant, half terrified.

“Not hungover. Not woozy. Not still pissed as a fart. _Groggy_.

“Yeah, groggy. What of it?”

“Potentially illustrative,” mused Sherlock. He sat beside her at the kitchen table. “So tell me what brings you to a stranger’s home in the middle of the night at Christmas with first and second degree burns on your hands? A simple accident, you’d have gone to your nearest A&E.”

Harry stared hard at him, fear of knowing vying with the fear of not knowing.

“There’ve been fires. Two in the last two months. Men dying in fires in cars.”

“And…?” Sherlock prompted.

“I woke up like this five hours ago,” Harry held up her blistered hands just as John returned, “And I remembered a fire. A man in a car. Burning. Screaming and burning. And. And.” A stifled sob.

“What the hell are you doing, Sherlock? This is my sister.”

“She’s a _case_ , apparently,” said Sherlock drily.

John frowned at him, and at Mary, who nodded. Instead of arguing, he washed his hands, though his expression was stony.

“There’s another ‘and’,” prompted Sherlock.

Harry’s opened her mouth and her breath came in sudden, panicked gasps. She half turned towards John, but wouldn’t face him. She turned back to Sherlock and stared into his grey eyes, her own full of terror; full of supplication.

“I. I know the man. Who was screaming. In the burning car.”

John paused, only barely, while snapping on the latex gloves. He set up wipes, gauze, distilled water, to start work. Harry refused to look at him, so he prepped a needle of anaesthetic.

“No, don’t treat the burns yet,” said Sherlock sharply, “I haven’t looked at them yet.”

 “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.” John sat down next to Harry. “This will sting a bit, but it’ll numb the pain.”

“But he’s right,” said Harry shakily, “He needs to know what I did.”

“What did you do?” John asked. He looked at her, solemn and patient, and Harry began to cry again, silent tears down her face, tracking through the faint grime.

“I think I set our father on fire.”

John’s hesitation was almost imperceptible. With rock steady hands, he carefully injected several points around Harry’s wrists to dull the pain. He put the needle down before he peeled off one glove and cupped his sister’s face, wordlessly, and so very, very gently.

“I finally did it.” She laughed, harshly, and shuddered head to foot while she laughed. “Who knew I had it in me, eh? I’ve wanted to, but I didn’t think. I didn’t. Didn’t think I could.”

“It’s going to be okay, Harry.”

“No it isn’t. How can it be?”

“Tell us everything. We’ll help. It’s what we do. We’ll look after you.” He rubbed his thumb lightly above her singed cheek; kissed her temple with the lightest brush of his lips, then sat back. “Make it quick, Sherlock. Those burns need seeing to.”

Sherlock promptly took Harry by the wrists, delicately for all his keenness, and said, “Talk while I look.” He peered at the blisters on her palms, fingers, thumb. “We'll start with these burns. How did you get them?”

“I don't remember. I woke up like this.”

“Groggy. Yes. You said. But you said you remember seeing a man.”

“I keep getting... flashes. It looks like my father, inside a burning car. Screaming. I'm there, watching...”

“Just watching?” He took out his phone and took a series of photographs of her hands, front and back, with close-ups of the pad of her left thumb and the blistering stripes across the centre of her left palm and across the fingers of her right hand.

She flinched. “Just watching him burn, you mean?”

“I mean, do you recall doing anything? Pouring lighter fluid? Lighting a match?”

John glared at him while Harry shuddered again, but she was shaking her head.

“No. The images I get are patchy. I can see him in the car.  I can see the flames through a window. He’s screaming. I think I was screaming too. My hands hurt. My face was too hot. I don’t remember anything after that.”

 “Were you wearing this coat the whole time?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock finished examining her hands and leaned over to peer at her neck on one side, then the other. With his hands hovering above her skin, his gaze raked down her throat. He curled one hand around the back of her neck and pushed slightly. “Is that sore?”

“A little. On the left.”

He lifted her hair and peered again, and showed the spot to John, whose eyes widened. Finally, Sherlock nodded for John to treat his sister’s burns. John immediately set to work on her hands first, cleaning the injuries

“If it makes you feel better, whatever led to this incident, and whoever was actually in the car - I won't assume it’s your father until I have more data - you clearly tried to open the car door while it was on fire. That indicates you were trying to get the man out of the car.”

John stopped what he was doing and looked searchingly at Sherlock.

“Really?” Harry asked, hardly daring to believe him.

“The burns on your palm and across your fingers are consistent with gripping a car door handle.  The burn on your thumb is branded very nearly in the shape of a car lock's keyhole. If you were holding the door closed on him, you'd press on the surface of the door, palms flat and splayed. People only use the handle to open car doors. In addition, you have a small pinprick on the left side of your neck, consistent with a hypodermic syringe. It looks like someone has drugged you. Not very expertly. There’s bruising all around the injection site.”

“Do you mean that?” Harry looked directly at her brother for the first time, the hope in her face almost painful. “Does he mean that?”

John met her gaze and gave her a small smile as he wiped a swab soaked in distilled water over her skin, lifting away the fine ash smudged over her brows and cheeks. “He means it.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

“I wouldn’t thank the Watson family deity just yet,” drawled Mycroft’s voice from the doorway. He came in, his laptop open in his hands. His genuine government laptop, not the decoy that he had sent on that failed mission to Magnussen’s house. “I’ve got reports of a man burned to death in a car in Clapham on Christmas Day at around 9pm. A woman in a bridal gown was seen fleeing the scene. A short while later, witnesses saw an unidentified person try to open the driver's side door and, unable to free the man inside, the figure ran off.”

“So far that corroborates what I’ve discovered.”

“Quite. And normally an incident like this wouldn’t come to my attention, except that I have flagged for certain names associated with my brother’s associates to be sent to me.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock.

“Ah?” asked Harry. From the look on John’s face, though, the implication was clear.

“Family and friends of John Watson,” said Mary, “And in this case, Jack Oliver Watson, 63, unemployed mechanic and small time crook of Wolverhampton.”

“How the fuck…?” began Harry.

“Yes. Died at the scene, of his injuries.”

Harry’s teeth clicked as she shut her mouth.

John couldn’t hold her hand, but he sat to her as closely as he could. “Harry…”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” she said hoarsely, looking at the bandages on her hands, “That I might have burned him, or that I might have tried to save him.”

“He’s the third victim of such an attack in three months,” Mycroft pointed out, “The reports I’m getting on the earlier incidents also contain references to a woman in a bridal gown and veil. No references to a third person, however.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be,” said Harry darkly, “It was only supposed to be the bride.”

She looked up then at the sudden, sharp silence, and grimaced.

“That’s what he put in the letter he sent me,” she said, “When he suggested how to do it and get away with it.”

“What letter?” John prompted.

“The letter from that lunatic bastard, Jim Moriarty.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, a wicked prince sent a letter of tempation to the sister of his enemy, just to see what she would do.

**10 February 2011. Dunwich Road, Bexleyheath.**

Clara Tan (formerly Watson-Tan) used her old key to get into the house, the mail in her other hand.

“Harry!”

Mumbling rumbled out from the kitchen. Clara walked down the hall towards it.

“Harry?”

Harry looked up, bleary-eyed, from her folded arms. “Clara.” It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that Harry had fallen asleep at the table, and the only reason she didn’t have a hangover was that she was still drunk.

Clara kept her expression neutral and placed the mail on the table: a handful of overdue notices, Tesco catalogues and one actual letter. Then Clara reached into her bag and placed the folded legal papers on the table.

“The _decree absolute_. All signed. Just like you wanted.”

Harry stared at the documents. She edged away from them, like they were poison. “Thanks.”

“We had a chance once, you know,” said Clara grimly. “You pissed it away, of course.”

No reply. With a heavy sigh, Clara placed the house key on the table too. “I don’t need this. I’m not ever coming back here. If you can’t be bothered to try.”

Harry’s bloodshot eyes tried to focus on the woman who had once been everything. “I’m not worth it.”

“You choose not to be worth it.”

Harry shrugged and let her face sink back onto her folded arms. _Great. I've made Clara as mean as I am. Well done, Harry Watson, the anti-Midas, turning everything I touch to shit._

“You don’t drink because of your parents. You drink because you like it.”

“You done?” mumbled Harry.

“Yeah. I’m done. _We’re_ done. Goodbye.”

Footsteps down the hall again. The front door closing with a bang. Harry pressed her face into her forearm and wondered if she’d cry. She didn’t. She hardly ever cried. She’d given up crying when she was seventeen and hadn’t cried a day since then. Not even on her wedding day, when Clara was the most beautiful bride in the world and Harry thought that maybe she didn’t have to carry her history like a stone inside her heart.

Well. _Fuck that. Fuck this. Fuck everything._

She sat up again and pushed the legal papers aside to peer at the mail. Bloody Clara. Even when she was righteously furious with Harry, she still had to be _nice_. Deliver the paperwork in person, as though they were being civilised. Bringing in the mail. The fact Clara hadn’t made her a cup of tea and left painkillers was practically a spit in the face.

_Bill. Bill. Bill. Junk. Junk. Bill. What the fuck?_

The letter was in a long envelope, the paper thick and fancy. She picked it up and her hand shook. She put it down again. Coffee first, then mysterious letters. Ha. Maybe Johnnie and his posh detective flatmate were sending out wedding invitations.  Johnnie used to swear he didn’t fancy blokes, but Harry had practically raised him herself for a few years and she knew when her brother was checking out packages as well as tits. As a teenager, he hadn’t been subtle.

The hangover crept in at about the second coffee, after the shower. She’d have been running late for work now, if she’d still had a job.

Half a carton of orange juice and two painkillers later she was on the laptop, checking out little brother’s bonkers blog. Nothing new since the new year. Harry debated leaving an anonymous comment, just to stir, but she couldn’t be arsed to come up with an alias. She reread the last few posts though, and then went back to that utterly bonkers one with all the redacted names. The one with her baby brother strapped to a bomb and that fucking lunatic Jim Moriarty who’d nearly managed to kill her Johnnie - something their parents, two years living rough, the Taliban and even the Americans with their ‘friendly fire’ had failed to do.

 _Fuck Moriarty._ Still out there too, Johnnie said last time they’d met for coffee.

Harry idly followed some of the links and found the blog where Moriarty had chatted up that cute Molly bird. Then she followed that thread to its inevitable conclusion.

_Double fuck you Jim Moriarty. Being mean to the cute girls and trying to blow up my brother. Fucker._

On her fourth cup of coffee, while she was shoving the bills and the divorce papers to one end of the table, she found that plush envelope again. She tore it open unevenly and opened up the four sheets of thick white paper.

 _Hello Harry Watson_ , it began. _I don’t usually do this for free, but I like you. You’re like your brother. You’ve got spark._

Harry frowned and tugged out the last page. It was signed with a flourishing _M_ that told her nothing. She returned to the first page.

 _I’ve been asking about you_ , it continued, _and how sad you and your itty baby brother were as little girls and boys. How mean your daddy was and how he hurt your sweet old mother, and how you took your brother away and were lost in the woods for years and years, like Hansel and Gretel. And everyone I talked to said how much you hated your mean daddy, and how you set his house and his car on fire. Flames are so pretty, aren’t they? Especially when they’re burning the heart out of some monster who deserves it. So I thought I’d send you a gift._

Harry dropped the letter like it was about to bite, shoving her chair back and glaring at it. _The fuck?_ She groped for the discarded envelope and realised there was no stamp or franking on it. Had Clara brought this? Or just picked it up from the letterbox with everything else? How did he know about the house and the car? How the _fuck_ did he know about taking Johnnie away from that hell house?   _How the fuck did he know where she lived?_

Heart thundering, she pushed the top sheet aside with her fingertips and read on. The second page was headed, **_A Recipe for Getting Away with Murder_**.

  1. _Take one monster of a daddy._
  2. _Add one bright spark of an angry little girl._
  3. _Stir in an angry, angry bride._



_Have I got your attention? It’s as easy as pie, this. You can make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone ever again, not even your crazy bitch mother, and then you can live happily ever after, just like a fairytale._

Harry read the rest of the instructions. She read them again. After the third reading, she folded the letter up and put it back in its envelope. She took it to the hall table and put the letter way, way, way in the back, behind the stack of last year’s Christmas cards and the tin box of old keys that didn’t belong anywhere any more.

Then she put on her coat, grabbed her wallet and went to visit her mother.

Jeanie Watson sat in the common room, a blanket on her lap and a cold cup of tea by her side.

“Hey, Mum.”

Jeanie didn’t answer. She was staring at the television. Bloody _Coronation Street_. Wouldn’t do to stick her foot through the telly. Not at the nursing home. Other old biddies and bores didn’t deserve to lose out on the Bake-Off because _Coronation Street_ was Jeanie Watson’s second favourite anaesthetic.

“Mum. Mum, I need to ask you something.”

Jeanie’s attention was claimed only slowly, as though refocusing was hard. Her hair was thin and limp, her skin papery and pale between the broken blood vessels. The deep scar on her forehead going into her hairline was more pronounced now.

_She recognises me. Takes her longer now, but she still does._

“Mum, have you been talking to a strange bloke about Johnnie and me?”

“A man came. He smiled. I didn’t like it.” Jeanie shivered.

Harry reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her mother’s ear. Jeanie flinched.

“It’s okay, Mum,” she said, curling her fingers closed on the impulse to touch and withdrawing.

It wasn’t. It really wasn’t. Her real mum had effectively died thirty-odd years ago, when Jack Watson had belted her with a pool cue so hard she fell and cracked her head. The bastard had dragged Jeanie off to hospital, telling all kinds of lies about how it happened, while at home his kids cleaned up the blood; while at home his daughter smashed the cue to kindling and set fire to that bastard’s armchair, to their house, to all the awfulness of it, and his nine year old son took his sister by the hand and led her out of the conflagration.

Jack left home after that. Not for good, but it was too late. Jeanie was never the same. Not her fault, but it wasn’t like she thought to ask for help. Or that anyone offered it. She took to drinking too, which made it worse, and sometimes to hitting. Lousy aim, though. The damage had affected her vision too. Tunnel vision. A tunnel straight to _Corrie_ and the Rovers Return.

“Mum, tell me about the man who visited you.”

“John. Wicked boy. He ran away.”

Oh fuck. It was one of _those_ days.

“I took Johnnie away, Mum, remember? But he came back.”

“He’s a wicked boy and if I don’t punish him, God will.”

And there she was. The changeling who came home from the hospital inside their mother. No knowing who you’d get from hour to hour. For some reason, poor Johnnie brought that side out more than Harry the Fuck-Up did. The universe was more kinds of unfair than anybody knew.

“Can you tell me about the man who visited?”

“Wicked boy,” Jeanie said.

“Not Johnnie, Mum. The other man. Was it Jim Moriarty?”

“Moriarty? Jim. Ugh." Jeanie made a face like the name tasted bad. "That Jim was a wicked, wicked boy. Cruel. Like your father. He wanted to know all about you. My terrible children.”

“And did you tell him?”

“If I don’t punish you, God will.”

Harry gave up. She spoke to the nurses instead. The nurses didn’t like Harry much better than Jeanie did, but they said a dark-haired man had been to visit, claiming to be a nephew. Sweet, they’d called him. Attentive and kind and he talked with Jeanie Watson for ages, even when she swore at him and called him the devil. He’d only laughed at that. A nice boy. Chatty, not like Mr Watson, who limped and never smiled, and sat with Jeanie until his mother swatted wildly at him and told him to _go away_.

_You are all morons._

Harry thought if she sold her mum’s house in Bexleyheath she could get Jeanie into a better facility, but then Harry wouldn’t have anywhere to live either. She’d be back on her feet soon. Now the divorce was over. Harry could move on. Plenty of work in IT still. Low key help desk shit, keep the money ticking over. Right.

Harry went to the pub on the way home. Just for one drink. Maybe two. _Okay, three, but that’s the limit_.

She got home at four in the morning, falling through the front door. She fell asleep, fully clothed, on the bed in Johnnie’s old room.

Later in the morning, she fished out the letter from Jim Moriarty and read it again.

She dialled the number he’d written on the third page.

“Hello, Emelia Ricoletti.”

Harry hung up, shoved the letter back in the drawer and went to stand under a cold shower in her clothes until she could face the day.

Once or twice a week, Harry looked at that letter. Once or twice she called the number. Nothing more. Never anything more.

And the next thing she knew, a year had passed, and Johnnie’s posh arse of a friend was dead and a fraud, and Moriarty turned out to be a stupid _actor_.

Johnnie wouldn’t even answer her emails, let alone her calls.

Harry thought it was just her, but she poked around his old haunts and he wasn’t talking to _anybody_. Not even Bill Murray or that fat bloke, Stamford.

She saw John just the once. She tracked him to the clinic where he worked and he stared at her for a solid minute – Harry was terrified suddenly that like their Mum, Johnnie didn’t really recognise her – but then he sighed and waited for her to walk with him. His gait was off. Sore foot or something.

Harry was sober for a change. John was simmering like a volcano, shut off, hardly speaking. _That son of Jeanie’s who limps and never smiles._

“Johnnie, you’ve got to chill. Ignore the newpapers.”

“Look, what they’re saying about him...”

“Yeah, I know…”

“He wasn’t a fake.”

“I know you thought the sun shone out of his arse…”

“You agree with them, then. Sherlock Holmes was a fake. He invented Moriarty.”

“Fuck’s sake, Johnnie, have a drink and calm down.”

“No. No. No. If I have a drink I’ll have another. And another. And I’ll keep drinking until. Until I. Harry, I’m angry all the time. _All the time._ And if I’m drunk and angry, I’ll be just like him.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I fucking will. I work every day of my life at not being that, but I’m terrified one day, if I’m angry enough, if I’m broken enough, I’ll beat the shit out of someone who doesn’t deserve it. And I’ll be everything I hate. You don’t get it. Sherlock… he… kept me… right. Like you used to. Until.”

_Yeah. Until._

“I have to go,” he said, and he left, and she hardly saw him after that. Like seeing her would break him and he’d follow her down into the bottle.

Maybe he was right. He was smart, her baby brother, when he wasn’t being a surly prick.

She went home and took out the letter. Read it again.

_Actor, my arse. RIchard Brooke's the fake. That Moriarty bastard spooked our Mum. And he killed Johnnie's mate, somehow. Fucker._

But she didn't throw the letter away, or show it to John or the police. Jim Moriarty’s letter lived in that drawer by the front door. Harry read it every week. She _thought about it_ every day of every single week. She did nothing about it, but _every single week_ , she wondered what it would be like to kill the man who'd fucked up their lives, and _get away with it_.

And then Johnnie's dead friend came back to life.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry examined the weave of her bandages, noting how neatly it had been done. She’d always supposed her brother was a good doctor. It was almost nice to have been at the receiving end of his care. Minimal hurt, maximum tidiness. The thought of how he had gently touched her face after injecting the anaesthetic made her simultaneously warm and sad. They hadn’t had much of that.

“I didn’t do it,” she said quietly to the tabletop. “I thought about it, but I didn’t do it.”

“Yes, we’ve just about established that,” said Sherlock briskly, “Do you still have the letter?”

“Sherlock…” In a warning tone from John.

Sherlock cut a glare at John. “Harry talks about two other similar killings before this one, and knowledge of the method. We have a lot to uncover before Scotland Yard finally makes the connections and comes looking for her. And this is _Moriarty_ we’re talking of here.” He was speaking more quickly, more tensely, by the end.

“Yeah, and while we’re on that, why would he be sending letters to my sister?” John’s voice rose too, full of tension and anger.

“To damage us, to hurt us, why else? He did his homework and made mischief. Torment, tempt, burn the heart out. It’s what he _does_ , John.” His palms were pressed flat to the table; John’s were clenched in his lap.

“Did,” said Mary, loudly and firmly.

“What?”

“It’s what he _did_ , Sherlock. He’s dead now. Brains blown out. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. I was _there_.” But for all the snippiness, he became less obviously brittle.

Harry saw Sherlock’s hands relax on the table top, and suspected he’d been pressing them down hard to hide a tremor. She knew the trick. Did it herself often enough, though her shakes were booze related.

_Moriarty frightens him. Fuck. Me too, posh boy. Me fucking too._

And then Johnnie’s wife went to Johnnie’s best friend and placed her hand over his, rubbing the back of it with her thumb, in a not-just-good-friends way. And then Johnnie, holy fuck, just reached across the table to place his hand over both of theirs in the same way. Soothing and reassuring.

Harry stared, wondering if she was mistaken. Must have been mistaken. Surely. But there was the posh boy’s posher brother watching them too, unsurprised, and Harry was pretty sure that she wasn’t reading too much into it. She was reading it exactly right. Well, well. Baby brother had come a long way since his teen years.

Naturally, this was when the other occupants of the cottage, woken by the subtle and not-so-subtle sounds of disturbance in the house, appeared at the kitchen doorway. Harry looked at the obvious Holmes parentals taking in the tableau.

Everyone had frozen, deer-in-the-headlights, and Harry almost laughed. Then Johnnie and Mary withdrew, not guilty-fast but slow, like it was a big deal that they were all going to agree wasn’t a big deal as though their lives depended on it.

Sherlock lifted his chin at his parents, daring them to say something.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” said Mr Holmes senior. Mrs Holmes drew her dressing gown closer and sat opposite Harry at the table.

“I hope the boys are going to help you, dear,” said the old lady, “You look like you’ve been in the wars.”

That startled a laugh from her. “You should see the other guy.” But the laugh died in her throat and her eyes creased in despair.

“Get the fruit mince pies too, will you, Giles?” suggested Mrs Holmes.

Mr Holmes deposited an open tin with a proud flourish.  “Best mince pies in the county,” he said, “Blue ribbon winner at last year’s fair. My wife insists it’s the mathematical precision of the ingredients. I’m inclined to think it’s because she makes them for the boys.  Love is the secret ingredient.” He twinkled – _twinkled_ – at Harry, while Mrs Holmes made a scoffing face at her husband.

Underneath it, Harry could see the affection of long years of teasing. She didn’t know whether to be revolted or enchanted. She settled on uneasy envy, and went for her usual tactic of deflection with belligerence.

“So,” she said loudly to Sherlock, “That Moriarty fucker sent me that letter hoping I’d follow his instructions, just so he could fuck with you?”

Unfazed by her swearing and aggressive tone – well, he’d lived with Johnnie, he wouldn’t be – Sherlock said, “Yes.”

“What a total fucking prick.”

“Yep,” he agreed, popping the ‘p’. Honestly, Harry was starting to really like him.

“So,” said Mycroft in his dry way, “Do you _have_ the letter?”

“It’s in the car,” Harry said, “I’ve been carrying it with me since the first bride-and-the-burning-car report.”

Mr Holmes put the teapot on the table as though mentions of brides and burning cars were run-of-the-mill conversational topics from strangers with burned hands at his kitchen table at three in the morning of a Boxing Day.

Mrs Holmes rose like a helpful hostess. “Sherlock will fetch it, then. You sit there and have a nice cup of tea, Ms…?”

“Harry,” said Harry.

“Harry's my sister, Mrs Holmes,” said John.

“I thought I saw a resemblance. Come along, Sherlock.” She stood expectantly at the kitchen door until her younger son rose. Sherlock cast a puzzled glance at his brother, who shrugged, and followed his mother out into the foggy darkness.

*

Leandra Holmes folded her arms against the chill while Sherlock rifled through the glove compartment of Harry Watson’s car.

“You won’t be staying for lunch, I take it,” she said, less accusing than resigned.

“Remains to be seen,” Sherlock replied, before voicing an _Aha!_ of triumph and emerging from the car with an envelope in his hand. His mother didn’t pay any attention to the letter he brandished. Her eyes were fixed on the steering wheel of the car. Sherlock followed her gaze.

The steering wheel was smeared in blood. Fragments of skin that had blistered.

“She burned her hands,” Leandra said, “And drove here. Like that.”

“She was in too much shock to feel the pain until she was almost here,” Sherlock asserted, “Although whatever was used to knock her out before her father’s car was set on fire would have contributed to her lack of pain response.”

At her startled look of horror, he explained, “Someone has murdered her and John’s father, and tried to frame her for it. It might still be her doing, but I think it unlikely. This,” he waved the letter, “Will tell me how it was done. Then we find out who. And why.”

“Their father was murdered?”

“Yes, but don’t take it too much to heart. He was by all accounts a brute who got what was coming to him.”

Instead of admonishing him, Leandra closed the car door. “So you’ll be off to London again soon?”

“In an hour or so. I’d rather Harry stayed here, if you don’t mind. Harder for her to run away if she takes it into her head to try.”

“All right. She can have your the downstairs room, I take it?”

“Certainly. I won’t need it. I won’t be here, will I?” His response was a touch too rapid, too nervously breathy.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am not an idiot.”

“What? No. I never said you…”

“And my hearing is perfectly acute, thank you.”

“Hearing? No. There wasn’t anything to hear. Wait…”

“Honestly. Young people. You think you invented threesomes.”

She left him floundering on the doorstep as she went back into the house.

*

Sherlock heard the argument in the living room as he returned.

“Stop calling me ‘Johnnie’. I'm a grown man for fuck’s sale.” 

“Fuck you. You'll always be Johnnie to me. The baby brother I look out for.”

“Nobody's been looking after me but _me_ most of my life,” the snapped response.

“Here we go. John Watson: Brave Little Soldier. Unless you run bleating for help.”

“Don’t you fucking start. I _had_ to call the ambulance. I thought you were fucking _dead_.”

“Yeah. You make that mistake a lot.” A deadly silence and then, “Shit. Johnnie. John. John, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I know how that fucked you up, what happened to Sherlock.”

“It _all_ fucked me up, Harry. What he did to Mum. What she became afterwards. I know you tried. But I came home from school and you were unconscious in Pete’s garden and I couldn’t tell if you were breathing. Of course I called for help.”

“But it was just your screw-up sister, dead drunk for the first time.” A self-deprecating laugh full of sorrow. “I know you didn’t mean to make a mess of it. I kept you out of her house as long as I could. I didn’t want the cops to send you back.”

“But back they sent me anyway. We managed for two years though.”

“Yeah. I even kept us off the actual streets for most of that.”

“I can still fall asleep pretty much anywhere as long as it's not actually two inches deep in rainwater.”

“See. All the life skills I taught you.”

“Except how to ask for help.”

“Yeah. We’re both pretty shit at that.”

“But fuck, Harry. You had a letter from _Moriarty_. You knew he was real, you knew Sherlock wasn’t a fake. Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock stepped into the living room to see Harry on the sofa in front of the new-built fire. John stood by the mantel.

“What was she going to say, John? She was the alcoholic elder sister of my dupe. The papers would have eaten her for breakfast, and chewed you up again as well. Lestrade might have tried to act, but the police would hardly have listened and that letter doesn't exactly put her in a good light. Moriarty sent her a temptation that couldn't possibly be shared.”

Brother and sister looked to him. Harry seemed startled to find Sherlock on her side. Then she turned back to her brother.

“Listen to your smart boyfriend, John.”

“You could have told _me_.”

“You weren't listening to anybody either, John. You stopped talking to all your friends. You were just mourning like a widower and setting yourself challenges on how long you could make yourself go between drinks. And I know what that's like. I meant to tell you, but I could see I wasn't going to be any good to you. And you’re right, I never have been. I set fire to our house, I got sent to Downview for setting that bastard’s car on fire. I dragged you out of the house when Mum started hitting you and we lived on couches and spare rooms and the occasional squat for two years. Johnnie, I am no bloody good to you at all. You know it. It's why you're happy when I stay away.” 

“You kept me going to school, even from the squats,” John said quietly. “You did okay. You did your best by me. I didn’t do the best by you. I get why you… don’t much like me.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I called the ambulance, and you didn’t need one. I got you sent back to Downview. That was my fault.”

“Maybe. It’s not what you meant to do, though. And you had to go back to that bloody house with mum like she is, so I guess we were both punished for our sins.”

“It sounds more that you were both punished for your father’s sins,” said Sherlock. He dropped onto the sofa next to Harry. “I’ll ask Mary when she returns from getting dressed, but I don’t think those two years you’ve mentioned are in your dossier.”

John grimaced. “Mum would have had to report us missing, or I’d have had to miss a lot of school, for someone to officially notice.”

“And until I passed out dead drunk on Pete’s lawn and scared the shit out of Johnnie – sorry; _John_ – nobody did.”

John stared into the fire and Sherlock tapped the envelope against his fingertips, wondering at all the things he still didn’t know about the person he knew best in the world.

John’s eyes fixed on the letter. “Is that it, then?”

“It is. We’ll… ah, here they all come.”

The living room filled up again. Mary returned, dressed, alongside Mycroft, now in his habitual suit. Leandra and Giles carried in trays of tea, mince pies and biscuits, the sandwiches they’d been making.

“It’s four in the morning,” noted Mycroft wryly, “How hungry do you think we can possibly be?”

“Don’t be an arse, _Mike_ ,” said Mary with an evil grin.

“There’s still a role in the Shetlands…”

“I’ve resigned, remember?”

“Stop threatening the guests,” said Leandra Holmes sharply, “Or I’ll give all your mince pies to the ducks. Now. What’s in this letter?”

Harry’s eyes were downcast, even when Giles carefully helped her to hold a fresh mug of tea in her bandaged fingers. She didn’t dare look at anyone while Sherlock read out the scheme James Moriarty had outlined to her all those years ago.

“ _Here’s what you do_ ,” Sherlock read, and those who had heard Moriarty’s voice could hear the cruel lilt underneath Sherlock’s brisk tones.

_There’s a fairy godmother whose name is Emelia Ricoletti. Emelia has a terrible, terrible husband. He’s very mean, and he likes to hurt Emelia, just like your mean daddy likes to hurt your poor old mum. The thing is, Emelia’s sister Kate is very sick, poor lamb. She’s not long for this world, but she wants to make it count for Emelia and all the women like her. She and Emelia came to me for help, and I told her I would be delighted._

_It’s a simple trade. A life for a life. You help her get rid of her awful husband, and she’ll help you to get rid of your terrible father._

_It will be so easy peasy. You’ll dress up as a beautiful, beautiful bride with a lovely long veil over your face and down your back, and all that foamy white lace. Because you know, every bride is beautiful but they all look alike, especially with those veils covering up their happy faces and all those happy tears._

_And you’re going to be the beautiful bride who helps to lock the terrible Mr Ricoletti in a car and let him burn while Emelia sits with big group of friends, far, far away, with the best alibi in the world. And then Emelia Ricoletti will be the bride, and she’ll lock up and burn your daddy, while you have coffee with your wonderful brother or maybe sit with your poor mam, with the best alibi in the world._

_Just call Emelia. She knows exactly what to do._

_And then you’ll both be free. Won’t that be nice?_

“That’s it,” said Sherlock at the end. “That was the plan?”

“Half the plan,” said Harry into her mug of tea. “Emelia Ricoletti had the details. But I never called her. I thought about it. But I didn’t think I could murder someone I didn’t know, just so I could get swapsies on my bastard father.” She sighed miserably.

Mycroft looked up from where he’d been tapping on his computer, collecting intel from his wide awake team in London.

“The first of the Burning Bride deaths happened two months ago in Edinburgh,” he reported briskly. “A man trapped in his car while a person in full bridal regalia was seen screaming at him moments before the vehicle caught on fire. She vanished a few moments later. The man’s estranged wife was at a charity lunch, raising funds for survivors of domestic abuse. The best alibi in the world. Last month, an almost identical death in Hammersmith: a man locked in his burning car. A bride seen in the vicinity, who vanished without a trace. And now yesterday – a burning car, a bride fleeing the scene – only this time, witnesses seeing a woman who appeared drunk or drugged stumbling out of the back seat and then attempting to open the car door, before collapsing. A car pulled up and took her away before she could be identified.”

Harry was alarmed. “I don’t remember that.” The blood had drained from her face. “I was in the car with him? What does that _mean_?

“It means,” said Mycroft coolly, “That someone was trying to burn you with him.”

“But who? I mean. Fuck. I know I’m nobody’s favourite person, but who besides Clara hates me enough to want to do that? And Clara wouldn't do that. She's not like me. She's a _good_ person.” Tea sloshed from the mug as her hands shook.

“What happened to Emelia Ricoletti?” asked Giles, frowning from the armchair where he sat. “She had the other half of the plan.”

“Excellent question,” said Mycroft, typing away. “Ah. No. Emelia Ricoletti died in December 2011.”

“Oh. I thought it might have been her. I knew a girl once,” Giles continued, “So furious that her best friend didn’t cover for her sneaking off for a weekend with a boy, she started spreading all sorts of ugly rumours about the friend. Ruined the friend's life. She moved to Australia to get away from it all. Some people can carry a grudge too far.”

Sherlock leapt up, flinging the letter onto the sofa behind him, and dropped a triumphant kiss onto the top of his father’s head. “Conductors of light. Everywhere I look.”

Giles beamed, a little puzzled, but pleased to have suggested something useful.

Mycroft turned the laptop screen around to show Harry the image of a woman on the screen. “Emilia Ricoletti. Murdered by her husband. He’s serving a 25 year sentence for killing her.”

Harry stared and stared and stared at the screen.

“That can’t be Emelia Ricoletti,” she said.

“I assure you, it is.”

“But it can’t be. That’s Kate Langtree.”

“And who is Kate Langtree?”

“My girlfriend.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Harry met Kate, and what happened next. And the Holmes Cottage on Boxing Day, as the Holmeses and Watsons swing into action to help Harry.

**The Great Harry pub, Bexleyheath. Ten weeks ago**

Harry had tried resisting the pub, but that only meant she drank at home, alone, which was infinitely sadder and shittier than drinking with mates at the pub. Okay. So she drank alone at the pub, too, but at least she was surrounded by people there. Sad and shitty, yeah, and still lonely, yeah, but not actually _pathetic_.

_Okay. So, **that’s** depressing._

Harry frequented the Great Harry pub on Parsonage Manorway because sometimes her sense of humour was just that vicious. When she was feeling particularly like laughing at her self-loathing she’d go to The Wrong Un on Broadway, and when she felt that Johnnie had been a particularly judgemental prick, she’d go and get fuck-off drunk at The Robin Hood and Little John on Lion Road. The Great Harry was closest to Dunwich Road, though, and along with the Earl Haig, was a regular haunt.

She was on her fourth pint, watching-not-watching the football on the corner television, when a slender woman took the seat beside her.

“I never really understood the rules of football,” said the woman to Harry.

Harry tilted her chin so she could look at the newcomer. Dark hair, dark eyes, smooth olive skin fragrant with some spicy scent: rose and orange and maybe a touch of sandalwood. Thirty-something, probably. Cheekbones to fucking die for, if you liked that sort of thing. Long neck, too. Harry definitely liked that sort of thing. She licked her lower lip, unaware she’d done it, and smiled.

“I could explain the rules,” she said, “If you like.”

“All right.”

“Let me buy you a drink, first. I’m Harry.”

“I’m Kate.”

“What’ll you have, Kate?”

“They’ve got Black Wych here, don’t they?”

“Aaah, a porter girl. I approve. One Black Wych coming up.”

Over a Wychwood porter and a Wells IPA, Harry explained the rules of football, using beermats, glasses and salt cellars for about two minutes. She only knew anything at all about the game because Johnnie used to play football and rugby. He’d been like a little bull when he was out on the field, head down, charging about, ducking and weaving. A clever, tough, determined little bull. He’d come home bruised and grinning every bloody time, even in their worst weeks.

Harry got as far as using Kate’s fingers as a stand in for a goal, spending lots of time brushing her hands across Kate’s, before Kate had pressed up close against Harry, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. “I’m not really very interested in football,” Kate admitted in a murmur.

“Me either,” Harry flashed a just-a-little-wicked smile.

“Walk me home?” asked Kate, “I’m just at the end of Riverdale. On the other side of the cemetery. If that’s not too spooky.”

They walked down Parsonage and over Brook Street, where it ran between the two sides of Erith Cemetery, then down Riverdale. They talked the whole time. Not about football, or about graveyards. Harry talked about the stars.

“My brother and I once bunked out on Hampstead Heath,” Harry said, “It was summer so it wasn’t too cold, though all the unintentional dogging we stumbled across was a bit of an education for a pair of kids. I was only 16, so Johnnie can’t have been more than 12. Anyway, we found a quiet place in the open right at the top of the heath though, and the clouds cleared right up, and so we sat on the grass and I taught him the constellations. We didn’t get home till morning the next day, and there was hell to pay, but it was worth it.”

“What were the two of you doing on the Heath in the middle of the night?”

“Just having an adventure, I guess.” Harry didn’t want to tell Kate about how awful it was at home, sometimes. She’d always jollied Johnnie along by calling them adventures, too, instead of saying they were sleeping rough so nobody got hit and so she wasn’t tempted to set any fires.

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Nah, it was just Hampstead Heath.” And if anyone had tried to touch her or Johnnie, she’d have kicked the living shit out of them.

“Do you still know the constellations?”

“Sure.” Harry peered up into the clear sky. Light pollution limited the view, but she could make out enough. “See how that one looks a bit pink? That’s Mars. Over there is the Pleiades. The Seven Sisters, though on a good night you can see twice that many in the group. Over there is Pegasus. It’s a bit of a cheat because those stars really only make up half the horse, and not even its wings.”

“You know a lot about constellations.”

“Yeah. Well. My little brother liked that stuff.” Though it was Harry who taught him to love them. Looking to the sky meant they could forget all the muck they lived in down here.

At Kate’s door, Kate fumbled with the keys. Dropped them. Harry picked them up and gave them back.

Kate stared at the keys in her hand. At Harry’s fingers resting on hers.

“Look,” said Kate, “I think. I think I better say goodnight. I’m sorry.”

Harry let go of Kate’s hand and stuffed her fists into her pockets. “Nah. It’s okay. You’ve probably had enough of me talking shite.”

“Don’t think that.”

“Whatever.”

Kate leaned over suddenly and kissed Harry’s cheek. She drew back, blushing, flustered. “I like you,” said Kate. “I’m just… not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not.”

Harry continued to frown at her own feet, but she nodded. “Just curious, huh? _Try before you bi_ and all that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. See ya.”

Harry walked back to the pub, but couldn’t bear to go back in alone. She walked on to the Earl, but another lonely pint didn’t suit her either. She went home, went to Johnnie’s old room and tore up one of his old astronomy books, page by page, until she felt better.

A week later, Harry risked going back to The Great Harry. She was on her second beer, watching some sixty year old thrash everyone at darts, when she scented warm, spicy rose and orange and sandalwood.

She turned to look at Kate.

“I’m sorry about last week,” said Kate, “I’ve been looking for you here, but you didn’t come.”

Harry sipped her beer and said nothing.

Kate put her hand on Harry’s knee. She leaned closer. “I’m…” She was nervous. Harry kept her hands on the table, wrapped around her beer glass. “It’s just… I’m new. At this,” whispered Kate. “Just out of a bad marriage and finally I think I know who I am. But. But I don’t.” Her fingers clenched anxiously on Harry’s thigh.

“You don’t know the rules,” suggested Harry.

Kate’s fingers unclenched. “That’s it. Exactly.”

“I could explain the rules. If you like.” Harry smiled, but the offer was a murmur. She dared to hope. After the knockback last week she’d felt mean and ugly and not worth much, but here Kate was. Making another offer. And it would be nice, to have someone to be with. Someone to kiss. To hold. Even just for tonight, and maybe not wake up alone. If Kate was nervous about it, they didn’t even have to have sex or anything. _I’m so far gone. Just company would be nice._

“All right,” agreed Kate, just as softly, and she kissed Harry’s cheek.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” said Harry.

“Okay,” said Kate, with such relief that it made Harry feel important. Like she was being trusted to help this beautiful woman understand herself. Harry wasn’t used to being trusted.

That night, when Harry walked Kate home, she was invited inside. They talked. They kissed and cuddled on the couch. Harry fell asleep, fully clothed, beside Kate and woke up with Kate snuggled up against her, and Harry felt important all over again.

She kissed Kate on the forehead and got up to make breakfast for them both.

Everything moved very slowly with Kate. Kissing sometimes. Cuddling. Lots of talk, about stars, about music. Harry talked about her brother’s time in the army and how it had half killed her when Johnnie got himself shot. Kate, who said she had no siblings, was sweet about that.

But Harry was Harry, and it didn’t matter how lovely Kate was, other sirens called. Kate, bless her, wasn’t all stuffy about it. They went drinking together. They’d end up roaring drunk together some nights. Harry slept on Kate’s couch then.

Then there was the afternoon Harry woke up on Johnnie’s old bed and her mind was a 24-hour blank. Nothing. She’d had killer hangovers before, but this was something new and horrible.  It got more horrible when she staggered downstairs and flicked on the telly while she sucked down painkillers and coffee, and saw that a man had been killed in a car fire in Edinburgh the previous night, witnesses saying they’d seen a woman in a bridal gown fleeing the scene.

_No. Fucking hell, no. That little shit must have told somebody else about the scheme. Maybe it’s Emelia Ricoletti. Fuck. Should I call the police? Call Johnnie? And say what, Harry? Here’s a letter a psychopath sent me a few years ago, but I swear officer, it’s nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t believe me._

She decided to let it pass. If they cops didn’t solve it, she’d go to Johnnie’s posh mate and see what he thought.

Harry didn’t tell Kate either, beyond a passing comment that she’d overdone it the night before. Kate only laughed and agreed that Harry had indeed been in top form, so she’d seen Harry home and left again. Harry dropped it. She was too fond of their slow-moving romance, all long walks and talking about everything under the sun, and holding hands and kissing like regency heroines or something.

Then it happened a second time. She and Kate doing shots at the Great Harry, and then waking up the following afternoon with a giant blank.

Then Kate shyly telling Harry that maybe next time, she’d be ready. For more than kissing. For more.

Only Harry had woken up with nightmares of her father in burning car, and her hands blistered, and she hadn’t hesitated.

She went straight to Johnnie.

*

**The Holmes cottage, Boxing Day morning**

“I think it’s fairly obvious what’s happened,” said Mycroft with that habitual hint of disdain, the shade of a sardonic smile at the foibles of the world. Mary could have told him it was not the way to go, but since when had Mycroft listened to her?

Harry scowled at him. “Yeah. It’s the old ‘the fucked up lesbian’s getting framed for murder by a tourist she picked up in a pub’ trick. It’s a bitch.” Harry barked a harsh laugh. “Stop screwing up your nose like I just farted in your face. I’m fucked up, not _stupid_. Not completely, anyway. My only-gay-from-the-waist-up girlfriend latches onto me a few weeks before blokes start dying the way Moriarty wrote about. Reckons she doesn’t know a thing about my blackouts. And she looks like that dead cow, Emelia Ricoletti. You don’t need to be a super genius to connect the dots.”

Sherlock’s fingers were flying over the keyboard on his phone. “Anything about an arrest from your people?” he asked Mycroft.

“Nothing yet. It’s only a few hours.”

“Fingerprints? Witnesses? Anything identifying Harry?”

“Nothing yet flagged. Of course, she and John should be the first people reviewed in any investigation.”

“Johnnie? No fucking way.” Harry’s protest was half a growl, half a distraught protest. She felt John’s hands on her shoulders and turned to him.

Before she could speak, he said, “Don’t worry, Harry. We’ve got this.”

“Your alibi can hardly be admitted in court,” said Mycroft, “Given what you were up to last night.”

“Mycroft, you’re not being helpful,” snapped Sherlock, “Can we take it Emelia Ricoletti is still at her house in Riverdale?”

Mycroft, who had been sending commands, said, “I’ve got eyes on the house now. She’s still there.”

“Right. Keep us up to date. John!”

“I’ll be dressed in five. See you at the car.”

A controlled whirlwind broke out: John flying upstairs to change; Sherlock to his downstairs room. Mary stopped them in the living room. “I should…”

“You should nothing.” John drew her into a fierce hug. “You’ve done your bit already. Just. Look after my sister, yeah? If she’ll let you.”

Sherlock’s hand rubbed down her back as John held her. “You’re command central,” he told her, “We do the field.”

Mary pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, then kissed her husband. “All right. But check in, and don’t let her blindside you.”

The two men ran out to the car and were on their way to London in moments.

Mycroft entered the living room, speaking on the phone. “Yes, Detective Inspector, I know. But Sherlock has a line on this not yet available to the police, and I recommend you follow him to the end of it. John’s with him, of course. Yes, I know where his sister is. But trust me when I say that this is far more complex than it seems. Follow up those two other killings. Hammersmith and Edinburgh.  No, I hardly think she made a 14 hour round trip to commit a random murder, Detective Inspector. I think you’ll find that was somebody else’s trial run. Yes, yes, I’ll be here. Sherlock’s on his way to the suspect now. Good.”

Harry walked into the room behind him, holding her hands gingerly. She slumped onto the sofa and tilted her head back, eyes closed. “Fuck my life.”

“I’d say that had already been done.”

Harry cracked her eyes open and glared balefully at Mycroft. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a prick?”

“Not many,” Mary offered, “Though they think it often enough.”

“Shetland Isles,” said Mycroft darkly.

“I’ve resigned,” said Mary grimly back.

Harry sighed. “I have to say, out of many very shit Christmases I’ve had, this is the fucking worst. How about you?”

Mary sat beside Harry on the sofa. “I’ve had better. But I think you win.”

“Yay me. How about you, Mikey?”

Mycroft returned her baleful look. “Christmas is generally awful.”

“Spoken like a true Grinch.”

“Bah, humbug,” recited Mycroft.

“That’s Scrooge,” Harry told him.

“Do I look like I care?”

“Mycroft!” Mrs Holmes called out from the kitchen, “A hand with breakfast!”

Mycroft dashed out a text on his phone as he retreated to the kitchen where his parents were continuing the attempt to be good hosts.

Mary and Harry watched him go.

“He’s a bit of a bastard,” said Harry.

“Yes,” agreed Mary, “But he’s helping.”

Harry folded her arms across her stomach and considered the fact. Then she looked at Mary again.

“You said you resigned. Used to work with him, huh?”

“Until last night.”

“Is he a good boss?”

“He’s a bit of a bastard, as you’ve just pointed out.”

“Yeah, but so am I, so that’s not really a disincentive. “

“There are easier ways to get a job.”

“Yeah, but it looks like pissing him off on a daily basis could be fun.”

“It had its moments.”

They grinned at each other. Then Harry laughed self-deprecatingly and examined her injured hands again. “I really hate being sober. Everything’s still fucked up but I have to care about it.”

Mary wasn’t sure what to say to that. After a moment, she said, “It’s harder to unfuck it all unless you are, though.”

“You really think this situation can be unfucked? You think _I_ can be unfucked?”

“I don’t know,” Mary admitted, “But even the Gordian Knot could be undone with a sharp enough knife.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that if Sherlock and John and I could get out of the individual and collective messes we got into, maybe you can.”

Harry sighed. “Well, fuck you, sister in law, for suddenly making that hideous task possible. I’d rather have a drink.”

“Okay,” said Mary easily.

“Okay?”

“It’s not my job to fix you,” said Mary.

“And fuck you very much again.”

“Though if you want to unfuck the knot, I’ll help if you want me to. If I can.”

“You don’t think I’m a hopeless cause, then?”

“No. I met a hopeless cause last night. A filthy, rabid, rat sewer bastard who only liked to hurt things. Nothing for that knot but the knife.” Mary swallowed the swirling nausea and nodded emphatically.  “You’re nothing like that.”

“A mess but not a hopeless, vindictive mess. Good to know. Cheers, then.” Harry seemed genuinely gratified by the idea.

“Breakfast!” sang out Mr Holmes from the kitchen.

Harry struggled out of the sofa no-handed then offered her elbow to Mary.

“Help me get to the bacon before Mikey does, eh?”

“My pleasure.” Mary took Harry's arm and strode kitchenward, each newly ready to face the day.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The named pubs are all around Dunwich Road in Bexleyheath.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock drive to London to confront Emelia Ricoletti, while Mary does her best as Agra to keep them informed. In the meantime, Harry Watson and Mycroft Holmes get on each other's nerves.

Twenty minutes into the drive back to London, Mary called John and Sherlock.

“Who’s driving?” were her first words.

“John is,” said Sherlock. Sherlock’s phone was placed in the GPS bracket on the land rover they’d hired for the Christmas break.

“Not without a bloody fight,” John said, his irritation at having to convince Sherlock to rest still evident in the tightness of his jaw.

“I’m perfectly capable of driving,” snipped Sherlock.

“You were shot a week ago, and we need you at your best for later, sunshine, so stop scowling.” Mary sounded more amused than anything.

“Yes, _Agra_.”

“That’s right. I’m your handler and I get you out of things alive when you listen to me, so let’s keep up that average, hmm?”

John looked pleased at being backed up. Sherlock had to acknowledge the truth of it. He stopped not-quite-sulking. “What do you have, then?” he asked.

“December 2011. Emelia Ricoletti was murdered by her husband, Vincenzo Ricoletti. Emelia’s sister Kate Langham was a key witness.”

“Not Langtree?”

“No, Emelia has been using 'Langtree' only with your sister, it seems. All the records are showing Kate Langham otherwise.”

“Back up a bit,” said John.

“Okay,” Mary said, “So Vincenzo Ricoletti was a right bastard and free with his fists, sober or drunk. We’ve got records of Emelia showing up at Emergency departments being treated for injuries, but the few times she laid charges, she withdrew them. Intimidated into it, I expect. It’s a common pattern. Indications are she was psychologically as well as physically abused. Then in mid-2011 Kate Langham returned to England after a decade living in Australia.  The next report we have is of _Kate_ in hospital – she’d intervened when Vincenzo assaulted Emelia again.  Kate pressed charges, but Vincenzo was given a suspended sentence. I’d say that’s about when Emelia had enough. Some people are like that. They’ll take whatever’s dished out to them, but hurt someone else they love and they’ll act.”

John grunted his affirmation of that.

“Oh John, sweetheart,” Mary said gently over the phone, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Keep going.” John accelerated the land rover down the relatively clear motorway, eyes fixed on the road. Sherlock, reclining in the passenger seat and pretending his side didn’t ache, kept his eyes on the phone.

“So, the Ricolettis’ car was found burning in the carpark above Robin’s Creek, near Gravesend, around 3am on a Sunday morning in December 2011 by a couple of teenagers trying to get some alone time in the boy’s Mum’s Volvo. Emergency services found a woman’s body in the back seat of the car, and forensics showed she’d been wearing a bridal gown. Vincenzo Ricoletti himself was found unconscious a half hour later, in a rowboat on the shore of the Thames. He claimed not to remember a thing, but his fingerprints were found on a gas bottle in the car. The gas bottle had been used to stave in the head of the dead woman.”

Mary continued with the report, noting that later in the day Kate Langham came to the police to report her sister as missing. She said Emelia had recently been diagnosed with early stage breast cancer, which helped to positively identify the remains.”

“I imagine that was actually Kate’s diagnosis,” said Sherlock.

“That’s what Mycroft’s team is looking to confirm now. Looking at the court records and reading between the lines, given what we know of the letter from Moriarty, it seems either Kate or Emelia found out about Moriarty’s services – there’s a $100,000 transfer from Kate’s account at about the time Harry got her letter - and Moriarty sent the sisters and Harry the idea for this scheme. It didn’t go to plan, though. The jury was told Vincenzo forced his wife to dress in her bridal gown, drove the car to the creek, caved her head in with the gas cylinder and then left it leaking gas into the car interior. He used the car’s cigarette lighter as a kind of timer to give him room to get away before the lighter heated up and popped out from its socket”

“That’s not how car cigarette lighters work,” said Sherlock. “It’s not likely to have popped out far enough to expose the hot element to the gas.”

“No,” agreed Mary. “I imagine the spring of this one was tinkered with, to eject it from the dash – then you have the exposed element in the cabin, reacting with the gas and then-.”

“Boom.” John’s tone was dark. “A booby trap.”

“More or less. Vincenzo says he doesn’t remember getting into the car. He claims his memory is a blank from getting home that evening to waking up in the rowboat on the Thames. The jury didn’t believe him. His prints were all over the gas bottle, there were traces that he’d been caught in the backwash of the explosion, and that’s why he fell unconscious in the boat, trying to get away. Kate Langham testified about his violence against Emelia and herself.”

“Kate actually being Emelia.”

“Surely Ricoletti realised the key witness against him was his wife, not his sister-in-law,” said John, “Unless, I don’t know, they were identical twins.”

“It’s never twins, John,” muttered Sherlock.

“Actually, this time it is.” Mary’s incipient laugh made Sherlock scowl and John look grimly smug.

“Even identical twins are never truly identical. Yet no-one was suspicious,” Sherlock took refuge in an old complaint. “I keep telling you the police are idiots.”

“They don’t have me doing their research, god love ‘em,” said Mary benevolently. “Well, that’s what we have so far. Go get ‘em, tigers.”

Sherlock grinned, baring his teeth. John was less gung-ho. “How’s Harry doing?” he asked.

“She's fine. A little quiet. I'll get her more painkillers soon."

“And you…?” began John, but Mary cut him off.

“Hang on, Mycroft’s got something new in.”

John changed lanes and breathed steadily, counting seconds in his head, remaining calm, calm, calm.

Then he heard his sister’s voice - in the background but loud enough to be heard very distinctly.

“ _She did fucking **what**? The **fuck** she did? Oh, that’s fucking **it**. Fucking fucker of a **fuck**. Fucking shitturdpissfart fucking **FUCK** of a bitch. Oh, fuck you, **Mikey**. When your house is on fire, **you** can calm the fuck down_. Fu-”

“ **You will calm down, Harriet Watson, or I will have you sedated**!”

“ **You and whose fucking army, Mikey?** ”

“ ** _My_ fucking army**!”

“ ** _That’s enough_**!” Mrs Holmes’s voice cut through and the background yelling abruptly ceased.

A beat of silence before Mary was back on the phone. “Your mother’s just said that everyone’s lunch is going to the ducks. Those ducks will be huge, at this rate.”

“What’s happened to my mother’s house?” John asked, so calm he might have been made of stone.

“We’ve just found out it was on fire this morning. The fire’s out and there’s some water damage, though it’s structurally fine. One of Mycroft’s agents just called it in. Harry thinks she may have woken up on the kitchen floor there before heading out to her car and driving off.”

“And she didn’t realise the house was on fire.”

“She was drugged to the gills, John. I think we can be grateful she woke up at all. It’s the kitchen that’s mostly gone.”

John blew out a slow breath. Drew one in. “Is Harry okay?”

“I’m pretty sure you heard how Harry is.”

“And Mum’s house is okay?”

“Apart from the kitchen. The fire didn’t take properly before the fire brigade arrived.” Mary paused a moment, then added, “John, Harry is okay. Your mum’s house is damaged but it’ll be fine. We’re all fine, here.”

In the background, they heard Harry yell, “ _Mother **FUCKER**_!” in surprise and then laugh uproariously. John visibly relaxed.

“I’d better go and rescue Mycroft,” said Mary, “Your mother’s just laughing and your father’s gone to make more tea.”

“It’s what he does when chaos descends,” said Sherlock.

“It’s nice,” said Mary, her voice suddenly soft and vulnerable. “I think I’ll go help. I’ll call if anything else comes up. I love you both. Be careful.” She hung up before either could reply.

John took the turnoff that lead to Bexleyheath. Rain had begun to spatter down onto the windscreen. He flicked on the wipers and they drove on in silence.

Sherlock leaned back in the seat, eyes closed, but then he opened them a fraction to regard John’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

Without so much as a glance towards him, John asked, “You okay? Need any painkillers?”

“They’d cloud my thinking.”

“So does pain.”

“I’m not in pain.” Somehow John’s scepticism was communicated through a sniff. “I’m in _ache_ ,” Sherlock said, “It’s not the same and I don’t need any painkillers.”

The grip on the steering wheel relaxed fractionally, but not much. Sherlock wished he was driving, but John and Mary had ganged up on him: he had to save his energy for the task ahead.

Sherlock had a lot of things he was saving his energy for.  Mary’s report had been characteristically efficient, but there was a sense of strain under it – especially at the end – which made him want to hold and reassure her, the way Agra had so often brought him reassurance and strength. Unbidden, the thought of holding Mary made him think of other things too, for the future.

Sharing a bed with Mary and John last night had been strange but pleasant. _Alluring_. As he’d drifted off to sleep, he’d considered the potential of it in ways he’d not thought of things – his body, Mary’s and John’s, the distractions of pleasure – in more than a decade. Celibacy had become an easy habit, welcome and less complicated than the alternative. Now the alternative was demonstrating its appeal.

Sherlock grit his teeth and huffed a sharp breath. Now was not the time.

“Sherlock?”

“Thinking.”

“Right. Planning on sharing?”

“Not yet.”

Those knuckles tightened again on the steering wheel. “Don’t do that,” John said, “This isn’t just another client that you can show off about when you’ve put it all together. This is my _sister_ , being framed for murder. The murder of our _father_.  He was an arsehole but nobody deserves to die like that. I know what burn victims go through. I wouldn't wish that end on Moriarty, and I've wished all kinds of deaths for him over the years.”

Sherlock suppressed his reaction at the renewed mention of that name. It always caused a brief spike in his alertness: a sudden vigilance, and the irrational fear that Moriarty had somehow contrived to survive the disintegration of brain and bone, and was coming for him. _I’ll burn the heart out of you._ It seemed Moriarty was contriving to attempt that anyway, with the schemes he’d set up long before that final confrontation.

“I’m not keeping anything to myself,” he said at last, “I haven’t enough facts to posit a theory.”

“You’ve had your thinking face on since Mary called.”

In truth, the thinking hadn’t _all_ been about the possibility of him relinquishing voluntary celibacy.

“I don’t care how sketchy your ideas are, Sherlock. I need to know…”

“You don’t. I could be wrong, and if I am it’s-“

“It’s _what_?” prompted John into the sudden silence.

“Cruel,” admitted Sherlock.

A long breath from John this time. Then John said, “It’s already cruel, what’s happened to Harry. Emelia Ricoletti tried twice to kill her, didn’t she? In the car, and at Mum’s house.”

“She’s all right. Mary says so.”

“Is _Mary_ all right? After what happened yesterday… Christ. We’ve left her back there, still trying to deal with shooting Magnussen, now this. I shouldn’t have asked her to take care of Harry. We shouldn’t have left her. Or we should have stayed with her. But fucking Moriarty is trying to destroy Harry. He’s dead and he’s _still_ trying to destroy us.”

The ratcheting tension in his tone halted as Sherlock laid a hand over John’s on the steering wheel. John blew out another slow breath.

“Mary is safe where she is,” said Sherlock steadily. “Harry is safe, too. My parents will take care of them both, and Mycroft has the safety of the whole house in his hands.”

Sherlock wasn’t best used to how to comfort people, but he was learning, just as he was learning to recognise when he shouldn’t espouse a cruel theory before he had reason to, at least to those it could hurt. He rubbed his thumb over John’s fingers.

“Moriarty is dead. This is case is simply a ripple from a stone he threw years ago. It’s practically solved already. I’ll tell you more when I can.” 

“Good.”

And on they drove, the tension between them diminished, but John’s grip remained fierce on the wheel.

*

Mary and Mycroft had put their heads together over Mycroft’s laptop, and since Harry, with her burnt hands, couldn’t help in the kitchen, she’d withdrawn to the living room. Mr Holmes had built up a fire. Harry stared at it a while, seeing sometimes the flames in her fuzzed memory. Seeing her father’s face. The bastard. The utter fucking bastard. But that was a horrific way to die.

Feeling ill, Harry dragged her attention away from the flames to the photos all along the mantel. The Holmes family. Posh boy as an adorably curly-haired toddler in a pirate hat with a nuggety little kid that reminded her of John when he was little. Later pictures of Sherlock with a handsome red setter. Photographs of snooty Mycroft, too. Chubby little kid, he’d been. Solemn too. What was that book she’d read as a kid? Something about the wind changing direction and some nasty kid’s face had got stuck like that. The heroes had gone off to find a bit of the same wind so his face could get unstuck.

 _You need a bit of the wind that stuck your face like that_ , she thought, _so you can get unstuck_.

It wasn’t until she saw the earlier photographs, of chubby Mycroft with a little girl, both of them smiling happy, looking at each other like they adored each other. At some point, the girl disappeared from this family’s life, and Mycroft’s face had got stuck in stony solemnity.

Mary walked through the living room, speaking to John and Posh Boy on the phone. Mycroft followed her with his phone, sending and receiving messages at lightning speed. Harry watched him, trying to see some part of that chubby, happy kid in the pissy-faced bureaucrat on the sofa. Nothing. Nada. Oh well. Some days, she looked at the photo albums she kept in Johnnie’s old room, and wondered what had happened to the happy little tomboy who swam at Brighton with her kid brother, the two of them sunburnt and grinning, smeared in ice cream and uncomplicated joy.

Dead and gone, that girl and boy. The woman and man who’d grown in their place were rusted and bent and broken in places. Though Johnnie was doing better. He looked good. At ease. Two people stupid in love with him, too. She was glad. Jealous, too, maybe. More glad than jealous, she hoped.

_Fuck, I need a drink._

“Harriet,” said Mycroft suddenly, “Where were you when you woke up last night, and came looking for Sherlock?”

Harry frowned. “I must have been at home. It’s muzzy. I woke up. I could still smell the smoke. I knew I needed to find John and Sherlock, so I managed to get to the car.”

“When you say ‘at home’…?

“I live at my mum’s house.”

“You were in bed when you woke up?”

“I don’t think so. No. It was a hard surface. The floor somewhere.”

“Ah.”

Harry didn’t like his tone. “What do you mean, _ah_?”

“It seems Emelia Ricoletti left you on the floor of your mother’s kitchen and then set fire to the house. It’s as well you woke up and left when you did.”

Harry felt so much at once she didn’t know where to begin. Oh, but yes she did. She began with rage.

“She did fucking **_what_**? The **_fuck_** she did?”

“Don’t be alarmed. The fire services were called and the fire extinguished before it did more than minimal damage to the kitchen.”

As if that was the point. Okay, well, it was, in part. Her mother’s house. Full of the only things worth keeping from her life, from a distant childhood before everything broke. Where a woman Harry thought she could fall in love had tried, for the second time, to murder her. To _set her on fire_.

_My fake, not gay girlfriend only hooked up so she could murder me. Because seriously, who could love this?_

“Oh, that’s fucking **_it_** ,” Harry railed, “Fucking fucker of a _**fuck**_. Fucking shitturdpissfart fucking **_FUCK_ ** of a bitch.”

“I understand you find this difficult, but we’ll get further if you can calm down.”

 _Supercilious prick_. “Oh, fuck you, _Mikey_. When _your_ house is on fire, _you_ can calm the fuck down. _Fu-_ ”

“You will calm down, Harriet Watson, or I will have you sedated!” Mycroft snapped.

“ **You and whose fucking army, Mikey** _?_ ” she raged at him. God, she wanted a fight. Or a drink. Or both. Anything rather than _feel_.

“ ** _My_ fucking army**!” he roared, and stopped abruptly, as though startled by the sound of his own shouting voice.

“ ** _That’s enough_**!”

Both of them shut up as Mrs Holmes stood, arms folded, in the doorway. “I know it’s all very distressing,” she said, “I understand you must be very frightened and in pain, Harry, but this isn’t helping, and it's _Christmas_. I’ll be forced to feed the fresh loaf of bread to the ducks at this rate, because it seems that none of you is too old to be sent to your rooms without supper.”

“Mother.” Mycroft sounded exasperated. His mother glared at him and his gaze dropped. “Sorry, Mummy.”

Harry wanted to laugh at a grown man being chastised by his mother and calling her Mummy, except that something about the exchange just made her want to cry. And fuck that. No more crying. Useless fucking things, tears. They didn’t fix anything or make anything better.

“Sorry Mrs Holmes.”

“Perhaps a little walk will help you,” Mrs Holmes suggested, “Some fresh air. It helps me when I’m upset.”

Harry nearly asked what the hell Mrs Holmes would know about being this kind of upset, but remembered the photos in time. The little girl who vanished and took Mycroft Holmes’s smile with her when she went.

“Yeah. Sorry. Thanks. That’s a good idea.”

“Take an umbrella,” said Mrs Holmes kindly, “It looks like it’s going to rain.”

Leaving Mycroft gathering stony calm around himself, Harry went to the door. She selected a big, black umbrella from the stand. Mr Holmes was suddenly there, helping her to open the door – too difficult to do with her bandaged hands – and sure enough, the rain was just starting to come down. She didn’t mind. A walk in the rain might clear her head. She and Johnnie had done enough of that as kids, keeping out of the house while the shouting happened, talking kid nonsense while sharing an umbrella.

“Let me help you with that,” offered Mr Holmes, taking the umbrella and fumbling for the catch, just as Mycroft noticed what they were doing.

“That’s my umbrella,” he said, starting to his feet. “No, not that catch…”

Two things happened in quick succession. The black canopy of the umbrella opened up with a loud _floomp_ , and then the body of the umbrella was suddenly ejected, canopy and all, into the sky. The wind caught the canopy and tossed it across the garden while Mr Holmes stood in the doorway, with an umbrella-handled swordstick in his hand and a look of surprise on his face.

“ _Mother **FUCKER**_!” yelled Harry in surprise, and she began to laugh, great roaring gulps of laughter. “ _Oh my god! Oh my fucking god!_ ” She was almost crying with the hilarity. Beside her, Mr Holmes was laughing too, and she could hear Mrs Holmes approaching from the kitchen. Harry turned and grinned at Mycroft, who looked apoplectic at the loss of his umbrella.

“Fuck me. Look at this! You’re a gentleman spy! Pure fucking _Kingsman_ ,” she hooted with delight. “When my hands don‘t feel like the skin’s peeling off like an orange, we should totally have a duel.”

“I’d rather have my umbrella,” said Mycroft quellingly.

Harry, still laughing, stepped out into the light rain. Mycroft’s umbrella had fetched up against the wall. “Fine. I’ll get your fancy pants _Kingsman_ umbrella, you can stick your sword away, and you can tell me all about your Steed and Mrs Peel adventures while we walk.”

“I’m not walking with you.”

“The fuck you’re not,” she said, coming back with the black cloth canopy held between her fingers. She handed it to him. “Your mum says we have to. Listen to her laughing at us.”

Harry grinned again as Mycroft sighed and listened to his mother laugh at him while he reassembled the umbrella

“You can hold the umbrella over both of us,” Harry insisted.

Mycroft managed to pop up just the canopy this time, and held it over the both of them while they stepped into the garden.

When they were far enough away from the cottage, Harry said, “Are Johnnie and Sherlock going to be okay? That Emelia bitch can't hurt them, can she?”

"I hardly think so."

"Or. Or Moriarty? That bastard's really dead, and he can't hurt them?

“He's really dead, so no, he can't hurt them,” said Mycroft.

“Or my Mum?”

“I’ve sent an agent to the nursing home,” he said, “Your mother is quite safe.”

Harry held her arms close to her body. Her hands were beginning to throb.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” said Mycroft, almost gently.

“Don’t get maudlin,” Harry replied, sharp again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Mycroft.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock reach Riverdale Street, where Emelia Ricoletti has the police at a stand-off. And then things nearly go very horribly wrong.

John drew up at the road block at the end of Riverdale Street. Lestrade’s car was parked across the intersection. The DI was standing by the car door, speaking via walkie talky to his team down the road. As Sherlock and John arrived, he waved them over.

“Sorry to ruin your Christmas,” he said ruefully. “The suspect was spotted by a unit heading south on the A206 an hour ago. Our lot pursued, there was a bit of a chase, and blow me if she didn’t do a complete 180 just before Gravesend and head back home.”

“You haven’t arrested her?”

“She’s upstairs, saying she’s got a gun and will use it if we try. I’d have given it a go, but your brother suggested I waited till you got here.”

“He’s told you what she’s done.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade turned solemnly to John. “Kate Langham’s responsible for your father’s death last night, and tried to pin it on your sister. I’m sorry, John.”

John’s expression was almost unreadable, except for a tiny flinch at the corner of his eye.

“That’s part of the story. Her name is in fact Emelia Ricoletti, and she’s behind two similar murders in the last few months,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade got the impression he was deliberately drawing attention away from John. “She was also involved in the 2011 death of her own sister, in one of Moriarty’s schemes.”

“I can see why your brother had me wait.”

“Let’s go speak to Ms Ricoletti,” Sherlock said. The three of them walked down the street towards the house at the end of Riverdale.

Sally Donovan was waiting in front of the house, frowning up at a curtained window beside a door that led to a tiny balcony.

“House is rented by a Kate Langham,” she reported to Lestrade, sparing only a passing glance for Sherlock and John. “She moved in six months ago. Keeps to herself mainly. Uses the name Langtree among the neighbours.”

“Her real name’s Ricoletti, apparently,” said Lestrade, “Emelia Ricoletti.”

Donovan frowned. “Ricoletti’s the bloke who got done for murdering his wife and burning her body in a car a few years ago. Some similarities to the recent murders, with the bride.” She shook her head. “Should have known it’d have something to do with you, Holmes. Weird shit at Christmas.”

“Yes,” deadpanned Sherlock back at her, “I’ve been a good boy and Santa brings me presents, like crazed arsonists trying to frame John’s sister for the murder of their father. If I’m particularly good, maybe someone will try to destroy one of us again before New Year, because that’s always fun.” _Fun_ came out clipped, with a long aspirated _F_. _Always fucked_ was the subtext.

Donovan looked contrite. “Sorry John. About your dad. And your sister.”

John was peering up at the house. “She’s armed, you said.”

“That’s what _she_ said,” Donovan corrected. “We can’t get a clear view of what she’s holding behind the curtains there. She hasn’t shot at anyone yet.  We’re hoping to avoid tha-“

“Emilia Ricoletti!” Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, shouting up at the window. “It’s over. You screwed up the dosage with Harry Watson, just like you did with your husband, Vincenzo. I can prove Harry Watson was drugged before you put her in her father’s car. I can prove she tried to rescue him after cigarette lighter mechanism popped and set fire to the gas in the car. I can prove you, dressed as a bride, picked her up and took her home to her mother’s house, and that you left her in the kitchen and set her house on fire. Did you imagine you’d testify that she’d said she was going to kill her father and then, sadly, killed herself in remorse afterwards? It was never going to fly.”

The curtain twitched aside. What looked like a gun barrel appeared and disappeared.

“That drunken bitch got what’s coming to her.”

“How do you figure that, Emelia?”

“He said she’d call. He said she’d help me and Kate get rid of that arsehole. And now my sister’s dead and that bastard Vincenzo is alive, and it’s all Harry Watson’s fault. I’m glad she burned, the disgusting bitch.”

“And there, once more, you are in error. You keep making mistakes with the sedative.  Just like you did in 2011. Harry woke up in Jack Watson’s car, and then she woke up in her kitchen and got out.  God knows how she drove across London without crashing, in her state, given she didn’t notice her house was on fire. But she did. And she came to me. And here I am. Because you’re incompetent, even _with_ instructions from Moriarty.”

Emelia’s face appeared at the window, contorted with rage. “Sherlock Holmes. He warned me about you. You bastard,” she yelled out into the street.

Sherlock found himself shoved unceremoniously out of the way, John hurtling into him, pushing, as the sound of a bullet whined past his ear.

Lestrade signalled his officers to go, go, go and turned to Sherlock, who was rising, pausing to check that John was unharmed.  He saw Sherlock try to follow the police into the house, only to be halted by John’s grip on his coattails.

“Sherlock, _wait for me_.”

Sherlock helped John to his feet and then they were at Lestrade’s heels, climbing the stairs to the top bedroom.

Emelia Ricoletti stood on the tiny balcony, her arms up, the gun still in one hand.

“I’ll kill myself,” she said, turning the barrel towards her own temple.

“OF course you won’t,” scoffed Sherlock, “If you’d been prepared to die, it would have been you in the car with Vincenzo that night it all went wrong. Instead you sent your sister to die.”

“That’s not what happened,” Emelia wailed. “It was a mistake! He was supposed to stay out cold, and Katie would have pushed the lighter in, closed the doors and run off. The bride would be seen, but I’d have an alibi, and we would have been free. We would have spent her last days together. Free.”

“No,” said Sherlock. “That wasn’t Moriarty’s plan.”

“Sherlock, you’re not helping,” muttered Lestrade. John, by Sherlock’s side, was curling his hands into fists, watching only Emelia Ricoletti’s hand on the gun.

“No,” breathed Emelia, “That bitch Watson was supposed to be the bride. She was supposed to be in the car with Vincenzo. It was supposed to look like she did it. Crazy man hating bitch in a bridal gown, killed while she was killing a known abuser.”

Lestrade heard John breathe out. “This is what you meant by cruel,” he said quietly. “She always meant to murder Harry.”

“She was willing to kill someone,” cried Emelia Ricoletti, “So it was all right for _her_ to die. Kate was an innocent.”

“Only she _wasn’t willing_ ,” snarled John, startling Lestrade with his hissing vehemence, “Harry never wanted to kill anybody. All she ever wanted was to keep us safe from that bastard father of ours. She’s never hurt anyone except herself, and you and your _fucking sister_ …”

Lestrade made to grab John as he lurched forward, missed, but Sherlock snatched at John’s coat and pulled him back, just as Emelia fired another shot. The bullet ploughed into the floor. Sherlock threw himself towards the woman, snatching at her arm, twisting it. Another shot went into the air, then the gun was pointed at her assailant’s face. Sherlock dodged out of her reach again, hovered warily.

“Give it up, Ricoletti,” he said.

“Kate’s dead because of Harry Watson.”

“No. She’s dead because you trusted Moriarty when he was just using you to get to us, and then when Harry Watson didn’t play along, you tinkered with the plan and screwed it up. You sent your sick sister into that car without having opened the gas cylinder ahead of time, so when your husband woke too soon he had a weapon to hand and time to use it. What was the original idea? To have Harry in car while it filled with gas from the start, and then when she primed the lighter it was supposed to set the car on fire at once. That’s what Edinburgh was about, wasn’t it? Getting it right this time. You drugged Harry Watson to see how long she’d stay under, while you flew up to Edinburgh to a client, let’s say. Someone who had an abusive husband who needed getting rid of. You worked out how to time the cigarette lighter heating up, popping out, while there was enough gas in the car to set it alight. Then again at Hammersmith. How much did those murders make you? A hundred thousand a pop? Two hundred? Retirement funds, anyway. Or… no. _Treatment_ funds. Breast cancer is it, like your sister?”

Emelia Ricoletti was crying.

“Killing me won’t bring her back. It won’t cure you from cancer. It’s over.”

“He’s going to get out, isn’t he?” she said, glaring at Sherlock. “He’s going to get out of prison, no matter what he did to me or to Kate.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

Emelia Ricoletti dropped the gun and turned in one motion, began to jump.

Sherlock seized her by the arms, and she kicked. She fought him.

Sherlock began to tip. The side of the balcony lower than his centre of gravity. Ricoletti began to fall and Sherlock began to fall with her.

Later, Donovan would report what she saw from where she stood below. Ricoletti tipping and falling, Sherlock Holmes, arms windmilling, face a study in terror, almost following. The animal bellow of rage and fear, but not from him. Two arms winding around Sherlock’s body and a glimpse of John Watson’s face, and then both Watson and Holmes disappearing back behind the balcony railings.

And the wet thud and crack of Emelia Ricoletti falling headfirst into the rock border of the garden below.

Lestrade saw the whole of that, and the rest of it. John Watson hurtling towards Sherlock and reaching over as Sherlock fell. Latching onto him, with speed and strength that hardly seemed possible, and dragging him back to safety. Pulling him back from the brink and down to the floor and, with another wounded animal howl, he saw John Watson curl around Sherlock’s body and hold tight, breathing panic-hard, his voice a series of short, sudden keening gulps.

And he saw Sherlock winding his arms around John. Hushing him. Soothing him. “John. Sssh. Sssh. I’m okay. You caught me this time. You caught me. I’m fine.”

He saw Sherlock kissing John’s head. John with his face burrowed in Sherlock’s neck.

John tilted up his face, winding his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and they kissed in brief but heartfelt relief before John subsided against Sherlock’s chest, his fingers curled once more in the lapels of Sherlock’s coat.

John’s white-knuckled grip on Sherlock diminished only when his breathing had steadied.

“I promised Mary we’d get back home alive,” Sherlock said, running his hands over John’s back. “Thank you for not making me a liar.”

A damp laugh escaped John. “She’d kill us both if I let you die. She thinks you’re trying to get out of being godfather to the baby.”

“Well, yes, but then I thought that would leave Mycroft free to interfere, and we can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t.”

John drew back from the embrace at last. “Why did you try to stop her?” he asked. Lestrade could see he was still shaking.

“Because her husband was a brute, and she was Moriarty’s victim too,” said Sherlock, “And I hate it when he wins.”

“Right. So. You two okay?”

Both men looked startled to find Lestrade still there. John looked frankly shell-shocked, and Sherlock hardly better. Sherlock suddenly let go of John’s hand.

 “Fine. Yes. All good here. Fine,” Sherlock assured him suddenly. John flexed the hand that had been so abruptly release and then clenched it.

“Okay then. We have to get forensics all over this, and then your statements. Take a minute, yeah? See you downstairs.”

Lestrade left them, and wondered how soon they would realise that he had also seen them kissing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, Sally Donovan both sees and observes; John and Sherlock despoil a car; and another Holmes+Watson pair appear to be forging a very unlikely friendship, given that they probably don't even like each other.

Sally Donovan thought she’d never seen Holmes and Watson look so much like they’d been chewed up and spat out by life, and yet still look so completely like a single unit. John’s wife, she thought, must be the most patient and least possessive woman on the planet.

The Boss had taken their statements and had half-heartedly berated them for the usual dancing off the edge of protocol. He should have been tearing strips off them. Their suspect had killed herself in front of these two. Not a good result.

“We’ll need to see your sister, John,” Greg was saying.

John’s seat was oddly close to Sherlock’s. It looked intimate, even though they weren’t touching. He nodded wearily.

“In a day or two, surely,” suggested Sherlock.

“I should really bring her in now.”

“She’s innocent.” Half a growl from John.

“Plus…” Sherlock had opened his phone to some photographs of nasty burns, which he tossed on the table for Greg to see. “She got those trying to open the door to save her father. Despite being drugged herself. A little recovery time, hmm? After all, it’s Christmas!” He put on a bright smile, almost human looking. 

“It’s Boxing Day,” said Greg tolerantly.

“Yes, and my father is making a late Christmas dinner. We really should get back. I don’t want to disappoint him for the third year running.”

“Fine, fine. And John. I am sorry about your dad.”

John chewed at the inside of his lip for a moment, nodded once sharply. His left hand rested in a fist on his thigh. The right gripped his own knee hard. Sherlock retrieved his phone and pocketed it.

“Hey,” said Sally, suddenly noticing the red stain on Sherlock’s shirt. “You’re bleeding.”

Sherlock glanced down as John said, “Fuck,” and turned to examine the problem.

“Don’t fuss, John, I’m fine.”

“I’m the bloody doctor, I’ll tell you if you’re fine.”

Instead of arguing, Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh and held his hands wide so that John could untuck the shirt and inspect the site.

_That’s right. He got shot a week ago. Jesus, these two. What a life._

“First aid kit,” demanded John in a crisp, commanding tone that Sally hadn’t heard before. Greg had already snapped-to and gone for the kit. Sally watched while John bared Sherlock’s ribs, removed the dressing to see the damage, hands splayed around the wound. He opened Sherlock’s shirt the rest of the way and pressed his ear over Sherlock’s chest, left and right sides, while he instructed Sherlock to breathe in, then out, in, then out.

“Lungs are clear. You’ve got to stop pulling these stitches Sherlock or, god help me, I will fucking _tie_ you to the bed and _make_ you stay still.”

“Are you expecting me to object?”

Sally’s double take was only marginally less severe than John’s. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, but then he caught _her_ eye and he grimaced.

John suddenly laughed. “You and your timing,” he said fondly.

“Yes, all right.” Sherlock’s protest had no heat in it. Then Greg returned with the first aid kit and played Nurse to John’s Doctor, handing out latex gloves and cutting gauze to size and handover over medical adhesive as required. Sherlock winced slightly as John finished and pulled his shirt down again.

“You all right for your drive back to your parents’ place?”

Sherlock looked at her like she was a lamp that had learned to speak.  She folded her arms and nodded at his bloodied shirt.

“Oh. Well. John will drive.”

She looked at John then, who’d seemed all but done in when they’d arrived to make their statement. He seemed better now. Settled and more his usual self.

“You right then?”

He furrowed his brow at her.

“What? I can’t ask if you’re okay? You’ve had a shitty week. He got himself shot. And then this business with your sister. What happened to your dad…”

“Yeah.” He huffed a breath. “Thanks. Yeah. We’re good. I’ll get him home, Mary can tick him off for going off half-cocked as usual, and then there’ll be a fight over whether we or the ducks get the Christmas pudding.”

That made Sherlock laugh under his breath. John shot a quick smile at him. God. Those two. All this shit going on, and they were just so fucking pleased with each other. Sally never knew these days whether to be irritated or amused by them, and constantly hovered in the middle.

“Right. Good. Merry Christmas, then.”

“And… ah… you.”

“Look at you lot being civil,” grinned Greg, “Christmas miracles, eh?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” muttered John.

“I can guess, though.” He waggled his eyebrows, which made Sherlock roll his eyes and John peer at him accusingly. “Go on,” Greg added, “I know _he_ thinks I’m an idiot but I’ve been around the block a few times.”

“Molly said something,” Sherlock said.

“She may have,” admitted Greg.

“You’ve been on a date.”

“Might have done.”

“Christmas party. Went back to her place...”

“That’s enough of you,” Greg said sternly, “I’ll keep your secrets if you spare me the commentary on my love life.”

“A huge relief to all concerned,” declared Sherlock, rising, “Come along, John. Father’s famous Christmas dinner awaits.”

Sally watched the man who five minutes ago had been completely in charge of the room go meekly off in Sherlock’s wake.

No, she thought, that’s not it. John was walking intimately close beside Sherlock again, their arms brushing. Sherlock said something and John’s shoulders twitched, like he was laughing, and then Sherlock grinned at John.

They turned to face the front as they got into the lift, and Sally could have sworn as the doors closed that their fingers clasped together.

“Come on, Sally. Let’s rescue what we can of the holiday.” Greg held out her coat to her.

“Does his wife know?” Sally asked him.

“Positively encourages it, I expect,” said Greg, pulling on his own coat as they headed for the lift.

Sally tucked her hands into her pockets. “Hmm,” she concluded, “Takes all types, I guess.”

“I thought you’d have stronger opinions than that.”

Sally shrugged. “He’s less of a pain than he used to be. Maybe it takes two to keep him sweet. Gotta be grateful for small mercies, eh?”

*

Harry sat on an upturned wheelbarrow and watched the ducks while she smoked. Those well fed ducks who must have thought every family argument was the harbinger of a feast.

A lanky shadow appeared at her side.

“Come to tell me to get out of the cold?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not your keeper. Catch pneumonia for all I care.”

“Then what…” she glared up at him, then grinned. “Cadging a smoke, is it? Get ‘em out of my pocket, then. Hurt like a bitch when I fished them out before and I’m not doing that again. Low tar, sorry. My one attempt to not be completely self-destructive. Kind of pointless, I know.” She shrugged.

Mycroft slipped his fingers into her pocket and retrieved her smokes without her feeling a thing.

“You’re a bit light fingered, aren’t you Mike?”

He ignored her in favour of lighting up, inhaling deep and exhaling blissfully.

For a few moments they smoked together in silence.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Harry said at last.

“You overheard the phone call.”

“Don’t bother to start being polite now.”

“All right. You deliberately listened in on my phone call.”

“I’ll have to testify.”

“It’s not likely. A police statement, backed up by the evidence Sherlock gathered at the time. The case won’t get to court. Nobody to sentence, after all. Least of all you.”

Harry took another drag of her cigarette. Blew smoke rings.

“Another happy fucking Christmas to me, then, eh? My girlfriend only hooks up with me to kill me and frame me for murder because I didn’t show up for her to kill me on schedule when Moriarty wanted me to. Then she tops herself.” She sniffed. ““You know the shittiest thing in this whole shitty experience?”

“Do tell,” said Mycroft. He blew a set of smoke rings too.

Harry stared at the glowing end of her cigarette, smoked down to the butt. “Get us another, eh?”

Mycroft tapped another cigarette out for her, and held the nearly extinguished one up to light the new one. Harry sucked on it, enjoying the crackle of burning tobacco as much as the flavour of it, and the sense of light headedness.

“The worst thing is,” she continued as though she hadn’t stopped, “Is that for five minutes there, Johnnie thought I’d done it.”

Mycroft lifted the cigarette away from his mouth and stared at her. Harry felt the moisture in her eyes again and scowled. So much useless fucking crying.

“He really thought I had. That I could. What does that say about me?”

“It says rather more about him,” Mycroft suggested as he inhaled another lungful of smoke.

She bristled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, your brother was an army doctor who saw rather more military action that army doctors generally do. He spends his days running with my brother through London’s seedy underbelly, seeing what people do to each other without the excuse of a war. He spends his days in proximity to violence, to people who have killed.” His icy blue gaze rested on her. “For example, and this is in confidence, when John went with me to rescue Sherlock from Serbia, John was with the field agent who shot the man who was torturing my brother. “

Harry bit her lower lip.

“All I mean,” said Mycroft, “Is that his world view is somewhat skewed through experience. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“I’ll try not to.” She turned back to watch the ducks, grown fat on the proceeds of family squabbles. She wondered what things might have been like if family disputes had been settled by desserts going to a pet dog, instead of by her father belting her mother with a pool cue.

“What’s it like, to have parents who give a fuck about you?” she asked, then shook her head, “No. Sorry. Scratch that. That can fuck right off. Sorry.”

“It frequently feels like I’m failing them,” said Mycroft.

“Well, that’s fucked.”

“Quite.”

“I’m sorry about your sister, by the way. That too is a shitty, shitty thing.” When the silence dragged out, filled with rising curls of smoke and the soft contented quacking of fat ducks, Harry said, “Sorry. Not my business. Let me at the drinks cabinet and I’ll shut up at least until Easter, I swear.”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

“No. Right. I just. Three times I was blacked out while she was off burning people alive in cars, and I had no idea. Too used to being blacked out from drinking, I guess, to tell the difference between that and being rohipnoled. That is so, so fucked. I’m so tired of being so fucked up.” She shook her head. Pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Sorry. I know crying’s just a waste of fucking water. All this being sober enough to feels things is the worst.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and took a determined drag on his cigarette. He blew out the smoke and watched it rise. “I’ve had my team do some more work on you since you arrived last night.”

“That must have been edifying.”

“Surprisingly, yes. Reading between the lines, which is what I’m supposed to be good at. It was a mistake for me to dismiss you as a mere alcoholic.”

Harry’s “Ha!” was at least as sarcastic as it was amused.

“Oh, do give me more of this pep talk, Mycroft Holmes. You’re making me giddy.”

But Harry was grinning, and she thought maybe she’d try not to goad Mycroft again this mealtime. It’d be a shame for that steamed pudding to be given to the ducks as well.

*

Sherlock was drowsy. He tilted his seat back a little and watched John’s hands on the wheel as they drove home. They’d begun relaxed enough, but there he was, white-knuckled again. The light was falling, winter sunset making it dark and cold though it was only a little after five.

“John.”

“Hmm? You okay? Need another dose?”

Sherlock had taken painkillers before the journey, acceding to John’s professional insistence now that there was no need for the same degree of mental alertness.

“No. What’s bothering you?”

“Really?”

“No. John.  I mean. I know the obvious things. There’s something not obvious.”

Rain began to patter down again. John turned on the wipers.

“I was thinking,” said John, “About what you said. Emelia Ricoletti getting her diagnosis, and deciding she was going to take a few more abusive bastards down with her before she went. Then deciding to take Harry too. Because of her sister.”

“Yes.”

“Grief is weird.”

Sherlock didn’t know where this was leading. “Yes.”

“The nursing home got Harry to tell me to stop visiting mum, you know. It upsets her, when I visit. She thinks I’m him. That I’m going to hurt her. It was a relief, really. Feels fucking awful to think of it that way. But it only upsets her, and then she hits me, and if it’s better for her if I stay away. Well. I stay away.”

“That sounds…” Sherlock wondered what the right thing to say would be, then decided to say just what he thought. “Sensible. For you both.”

“Yeah. Well. It’s almost like that with dad. He was murdered and I hardly feel a thing, except to be sorry it was such an awful death. I feel guilty that I don’t feel more guilty that I don’t care. He destroyed us.”

Sherlock watched John’s hands on the wheel. He watched John’s lined face frowning in the reflected light from passing lights and the glow of the dash.

“When you died. When I thought you’d died. At St Bart’s. I could feel myself... leaving. Every day. A bit more of me. Left.”

_Oh._

“Mary picked up the bits and held them together. And then you came back. Well, she brought you back, I guess. Putting the final bits of me back together. Huh. It was. It was like. I don’t know. It reminded me of being in hospital after being shot, and the infection cleared, and I was properly present in my own head again after weeks of delirium. Like suddenly not drowning any more. Anti-grief, I suppose.”

“John, pull over.”

“I’m fine. I’m just. You nearly. You nearly. Again. Ricoletti shot at you and she tried to pull you over the edge when you tried to save her, and I’d have gone over with you rather than watch you fall again.”

“Pull over, John. Now. Please.”

John pulled the car onto the verge and left the hazard lights flashing. They were in countryside now, only a half hour from the Holmes cottage. Sherlock undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. He went to John’s side of the car, opened the door.

“Come on. Out.”

John unclipped his belt and got out.

It was dark and cold, and though it wasn’t late, there were no cars on the road. The lights of distant houses glowed orange through the misting rain.

Sherlock wound his arms around John and pulled him close, close, closer.

John wound his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He rubbed his face against Sherlock’s woollen coat. Inhaled, then crushed his face into the fabric, his breathing steady and deep, filling himself with the scent, with Sherlock’s presence.

“Don’t do that,” said John softly. “Don’t you fall again.”

Sherlock kissed John’s brow; cupped his jaw in one hand; tilted it up. Kissed him. Soft and slow, then hard. Lips parted and tongue slow-sliding against John’s, the way he’d learned he liked in the last few days. (Days? Really? Merely days?)

John’s _mmpph_ of pleasure was swallowed in a deeper kiss, his arms around Sherlock, pulling him nearer, while Sherlock pushed his body against John’s, pushed them both against the car, kissed him, kissed him, kissed him.

Then Sherlock pushed his hips against John’s. Detected heat. Pressed his thigh between John’s legs, seeking more of it. John groaned and clutched at him, flexed against the pressure. A little growling sound in the back of his throat which Sherlock thought was the most arousing thing he’d heard in his entire life, before winding his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, kissing, mouthing, licking.

John broke off, panting.

“You. You said. You. Don’t. Do. Don’t do this.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Sherlock bent to suck at John’s neck, figuring some more physical evidence would help with that whole deduction thing.

“You did,” said John, though it was more of a breathy whine as he stretched his neck, face into the lightly falling rain.

“Did I? That was stupid. I’ve been reconsidering.” Sherlock experimentally rubbed himself against John’s hip and thought that was fucking brilliant. What a genius he was. He rubbed again and moaned and tilted his head back in invitation. Clever John immediately kissed his neck. Licked and sucked. Sucked harder at Sherlock’s vocal response and grinding of hips. Next thing, John’s hand was down the back of Sherlock’s pants, squeezing his arse and pulling him close.

“John. In the car.”

“Not yet.” Nuzzling, biting kisses. John’s hand slid from the full rise of Sherlock’s right arsecheek to the cleft, where he ran his finger lightly up and down. Sherlock was pretty sure he couldn’t come from that but that it was an experiment worth trying. He was also pretty sure that John had misunderstood.

“Not driving,” he said, marvelling at his capacity to form a coherent phrase while John deliberately slid his free hand up under Sherlock’s shirt so he could thumb the nipple. “Back seat. John. Fuck.”

An exclamation or an explanation, either worked to make John briefly stop and wrench open the back door and get inside out of the rain. John had started undoing his belt buckle, which was no good at all. Sherlock reached in and helped, tugging down John’s zip (John, laughing, saying ‘Oy, be careful’ as his cock rose up free of constraint.)

Then John’s hands were at Sherlock’s belt and button and fly, and then Sherlock kissed John, urging him back until he was stretched out on the generous bench seat in the back of the land rover. Sherlock stretched out on top of John, wriggling to push his clothes out of the way until he could move his legs.

The car door swung almost shut, stopping at Sherlock’s feet which overhung the seat. The indoor light flicked on-off-on-off as they moved, the door twitching back and forth between activating and deactivating the light.

“Careful, careful,” murmured John, “Don’t pull your stitches.”

As if Sherlock gave a damn about the stitches, except that John wouldn’t enjoy himself if Sherlock bled all over him again, so okay, careful of the stitches.

John had pushed his trousers and pants down to his shins and spread his knees so they bracketed Sherlock’s bare thighs. He’d pulled his shirt and jumper up to his armpits. Sherlock mouthed at his nipples, his neck, his jaw, kissed him (kissed him kissed him) with John’s right hand clutching onto the centre of his arse, encouraging each flex and thrust, met with equal enthusiasm.

_(And the lights flickered, on-off-on-off-on-off.)_

John’s left hand pushed against the seat back beside him. And on top, Sherlock pushed his left hand down, curved to hold John’s thick, hot, slick cock up against his own, and he thrust, arching his back, angling his body for maximum contact.

_(And the lights flickered, on-off-on-off-on-off.)_

Sherlock felt John’s pubic hair against the back of his hand; wiry counter-sensation to the wet-sliding slick in his palm; John’s belly against his lower ribs, chest rising and falling beneath his, skin flushed and salty. Sherlock bent his head to suck at one nipple then the other, then kissed John again, and thrust, dear god, he’d forgotten (or had never known) how good this could be.

John shifted, spreading his knees wider, shamelessly bucking up into Sherlock’s hand and moving cock, that space wet with their growing want.

_(And the lights flickered, on-off-on-off-on-off.)_

And then he clutched at Sherlock’s back with both hands, thrusting up up up into Sherlock’s thrusting down down down and he shouted ( _Ah, ah nnfff, fuck. **Sherlock**_!) just before Sherlock voiced a long, deep groan ( _jh-a-ahhhh-aaaaaaaaaaah-aaaahnng_ ) and they pulsed wanton sticky over Sherlock’s hand, their cocks and bellies.

Sherlock sank against John’s body.

The car door clunked shut, leaving them in darkness.

“So,” said John, one arm across Sherlock’s shoulders, the other toying with Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock huffed for breath against John’s throat. “Not how I saw this day ending.”

Against his chest, Sherlock, too sated and limp to move, started to laugh, which set John off, which meant that Sherlock was rocked against John’s chest.

Sherlock kissed John’s sternum, then his chin, then his mouth, before declaring, “We need to get back before Mycroft eats all the pudding.”

“Don’t worry,” said John, “I’ll create a distraction while you nick the lot.”

They tidied up as best they could and resumed the drive, much more relaxed. Sherlock kept humming and John tapped rhythm on the steering wheel with his fingertips.

Then Sherlock sat smartly up, suppressed a hiss at the twinge in his side, then stabbed at his phone where he’d left it in the cradle.

“I was wondering when I might hear from you two,” said Mary into the cabin, “We thought you’d be home by now.”

“Unscheduled stop,” said Sherlock, the smug grin on his face perfectly evident in his voice. He caught a glimpse of John’s sudden concerned frown.

“Mary,” began John.

“Oh I see,” said Mary, her tone infused with warmth and humour. “In a _car._ At least it’s a land rover. Lots of space.”

“Might need to steam clean before we take it back to the rental agency,” admitted Sherlock.

“And don’t you sound smug? Just so you know, I expect a cuddle tonight, if that’s all right.”

“I think I can manage a cuddle. How about you, John? Do you have a cuddle still in you?”

“At least,” agreed John, though his laughing-saucy tone promised more.

“Now who’s lucky?”

“We will need to run interference when we get there,” John continued, all seriousness.

“John’s jumper is besmirched,” said Sherlock, “And my trousers are in a state.”

“My God, Sherlock, if you sound any more pleased with yourself you’ll want a parade.”

John caught Sherlock’s hand in his and tugged him close. “I’ll have a parade,” he said, and kissed Sherlock’s fingers.

Mary just laughed again, happy that they were happy and coming home. “I’ll tell Giles you’re nearly here. He’s been making mead and boiling off as much of the alcohol as possible, and he wants you to test the results, Sherlock.  Mycroft thinks low alcohol mead is disgusting and pointless, and Harry thinks mead’s the devil’s work generally, but since I’m not drinking, and you probably shouldn’t while you’re on antibiotics and painkillers, Giles wanted to make something we might like.”

“Half an hour,” said Sherlock, “Less if John keeps driving too fast.”

“All right. I’ll set up a diversion for your arrival.

*

Half an hour later, Mary was in the kitchen with Mr and Mrs Holmes, asking detailed questions about the recipes for stuffing, pudding and mead. She thought Mycroft was monitoring the fate of the western world from his bedroom. She thought Harry was having a rest in the downstairs room, now that Sherlock’s things had been moved upstairs and an agent had brought a change of clothes for Harry from her mother’s house.

Harry and Mycroft were having another sneaky cigarette in the deep shadows beyond the gate. They heard the car and immediately both hid the glowing ends of their cigarettes beside them. They watched John emerge from the land rover and stride swiftly to the house, Sherlock in his wake.

“Oh hel _lo_ ,” laughed Harry under her breath, “Johns got his swagger on.” She considered. “Harder to tell with Sherlock though. He’s always kinda preening.”

Mycroft leaned over to see, his arm pressed against her shoulder.  “Oh my. That’s new. That’s not garden variety preening. His shirt’s in disarray. Look at his walk. Oh yes. Swagger.”

The two men were met in the doorway by Mary, who ushered them in with a grin and then closed the door.

“Doesn’t she look like the cat who got the cream _and_ the canary,” remarked Harry.

“And there they go slinking off to change their clothes,” noted Mycroft. He leaned back against the wall and raised his cigarette to his lips again. “One wonders who they think they’re keeping secrets from.”

“Bless ‘em,” agreed Harry. “Your folks don’t mind, do they?”

“Considering they supervised the clearing of the downstairs room for your use, no. I rather think they’re relieved he’s happy. Nobody is used to seeing that.” He puffed smoke rings into the air. “I really don’t know why I tell you these things.”

“Because I, too, know the misery and rage of being the eldest sibling to a part time jackass.”

“There’s something in what you say.”

“Let’s go see if we can spring one of them having a sneaky kiss upstairs. Or all three of them. It’s hard to make John blush but it’s fucking hilarious when he does.”

“You are appalling.”

“And you’re a pratt. I bet Sherlock blushes like a beauty.”

“He’s like a traffic light, if you can embarrass him, which is difficult. He seems to be shame proof.”

“Bet he’d light up like a beacon if we caught him snogging Mary. Come on.” Harry stubbed out her cigarette. “At least let me at your stash of breath mints. John’s stink eye when he knows I’ve been smoking is epic. Not as epic as your mum, but pretty fucking epic.”

Together they snuck inside to Mycroft’s room. They just missed John, Sherlock and Mary emerging from the bathroom and slipping into their (their!) room for pre-dinner snogging.

“Mycroft and Harry have been smoking,” muttered Sherlock, “They’ve gone to get Mycroft’s breath mints. Who do they think they’re keeping secrets from?”

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas dinner on Boxing Day isn't nearly as appalling as Mycroft expects it to be. Nevertheless, neither Mary nor Harry feels comfortable near an open fire. There is stargazing, and later John, Mary and Sherlock give each other more than comfort in the dark. Later still, Giles can't sleep, and finds a sleepless Harry, and makes a kind offer.

Belated Christmas Dinner on Boxing Day was not a disaster, as Mycroft had expected it to be. _Imagine the Christmas dinners_ , he’d once said in irritation to John Watson. Yet, in spite of 48 hours of the most appalling and gruesome circumstances, the unusually crowded table seemed. Well. _Convivial._

Mummy had thoughtfully delivered Harriet’s meal already cut into smaller pieces so the unspeakable woman didn’t have to struggle with a knife. Her brother, who was oddly specific in his cleverness, had changed her dressings, delivered more painkillers and splinted her dominant left hand with a short shoe-horn between thumb and forefinger to stabilise the use of a fork without damaging herself. An army doctor trick from the field, no doubt. It afforded Harriet – Harry, rather - some measure of dignity at table.

The dreadful woman sat beside him, insisting on being very entertaining company too. Calling Sherlock ‘Sherly’ to his face and surreptitiously flicking peas into Sherlock’s hair when his back was turned (usually to speak to Mary across John). It oughtn’t to have been so diverting, but twice now she’d caught the glint in his eye, and had glinted back at him. Impertinent. An excellent insight into the mind of John Watson, however. A surprisingly diverting smoking companion, too.

Mary Watson appeared to be coping well with the horrors of Christmas Day, he noted. Mycroft had been less sanguine after that business in Serbia, after witnessing the shooting of the man who had been torturing Sherlock. Of course, her husband had been one of the men to shoot that vile brute, and so perhaps was in a position to counsel her. Mycroft would never have thought Sherlock would be of any use on that score, and yet there his brother sat, solicitous without being overbearing.

The three of them – Mary, Sherlock and John – sat on one side of the table, and Mycroft sincerely hoped they’d given up any pretence that they were not a unit. Did they realise they kept touching each other? Fingers brushing, hands on elbows, wrists, knees under the table, the way Sherlock leaned across John to speak to Mary in a perfectly obvious manoeuvre to put his hands on John’s thigh and touch Mary’s wrist – good god, it was _merciless_.

At either end of the table, Mummy and Daddy presided over all with a positively wanton glow about them. Well, of course they didn’t mind about Sherlock’s unusual arrangements. Sherlock was so obviously so very _content_. Little brother even frequently forgot to be snide to his elder sibling.

The dire Harry nudged him in the ribs with her elbow and leaned close. “Ten pounds says I can get a minted pea right on his nose next go.”

Mycroft blinked at her. He glanced at her hands – wrapped up, shaking slightly. She hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since she’d arrived.

“You’re on.”

Harry scooped up another pea onto her soup spoon, lined it up at the edge of the table and flicked.

Sherlock flinched as the pea bounced off his forehead.

Harry snickered. “Worth it for the look on his face,” she muttered to Mycroft while Sherlock glared at her.

“Harry,” John chided her.

“I know, Johnnie. More target practice. Soon as my hands are right.” She grinned wickedly at her brother across the table, and Mycroft saw that both he and Sherlock suddenly knew where John Watson had honed his marksmanship.

Then Mummy waved her fork sternly at Harry and mentioned the ducks, and Harry promptly apologised. Then asked for more peas, so deadpan it hurt. Really. She was dreadful. It was alarming how much he liked her.

After dinner, the Holmes and Watson families gathered in the living room in front of the open fire. Sherlock brought out his violin and, without having to be cajoled, Mycroft sat at the little upright piano, and they had a proper carolling session. Singing and all.

It was stupendously maudlin, and also, Mycroft could not deny it, rather pleasant.

The clock struck eleven when Mary rose to assist with the clean up, carrying empty glasses (all right, so the low alcohol mead wasn’t _completely_ vile) to the kitchen, followed by Harry and Mummy. Harry, who couldn’t really help. Though there was that look on her face. And Mary’s.

 _Oh_. They had gone to the kitchen because, after the carolling, the sound of the fire in here was too loud.

John was deep in conversation with Daddy, something about the turkey stuffing and pine nuts, compliments on the meal, anyway, and didn’t seem to have noticed his wife’s absence. Sherlock was staring at the fire, and then at the kitchen.

“They’re avoiding the fire,” Sherlock said to John.

“Pardon?” John looked up at him. Mycroft watched John’s face change as he did. The morphing from attentiveness to his father’s explanations about cumin and apricots to a soft affection as his eyes met Sherlock’s.

“Mary and Harry. They are both avoiding being near the fire.”

Affection then morphed to alarm, concern, resolve. John Watson’s face was hard to keep up with. As was his sister’s. Not so much unreadable as far too swiftly changing to ever read fully. Part of what made them intriguing, he supposed. Not that he was intrigued by Harriet Watson. _No, no. No. Or._ Mycroft sighed. He did try very hard not to lie to himself. _Or, yes._

“Did your lot bring a coat back for Harry?” John asked him, rising and becoming oddly focused. “A walk would be good, but it’s a bit cold out.”

“Oh, one of Mycroft’s old coats would fit her, don’t you think?” suggested Daddy.

“Harry’s as short as John, it’ll trail in the mud,” said Sherlock.

“No, I mean one of his _old_ coats.”

Sherlock went to fetch Mary and Harry. Daddy fetched one of Mycroft’s winter coats from the hall cupboard. Two sizes larger but only mid length. He’d last worn it for a trip to the continent when he was 15, before his final growth spurt.

“Who’ll help your mother in the kitchen?” protested Mary as John handed her the cherry red coat she favoured.

“Mycroft,” announced Sherlock, then at a stern look from his paramour, added, “And me. You take John for a walk. He’s overindulged in pudding and now he feels uncomfortable.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock. “Twat. The rain’s clearing up. I thought we could look for the North Star.”

“Yes, that would be handy if ever I got lost at sea without a compass,” said Sherlock drily, determined to be unimpressed with the stars. “No. I’ll d-…”

“ _I’ll_ dry,” said Mycroft quickly. “You wash.”

“My boys, helping me in the kitchen?” said Mummy from the doorway, “Are there Christmas miracles after all?”

Daddy had helped Harry into the coat, which was still too long on her in the arms.

“Check the pockets for biscuits,” said Sherlock loudly, “He always had a stash of them about when he wore that thing. I think he’s got liquorice allsorts sewn into the lining.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at him with a tilted mouth. “If you fished around one of Johnnie’s teenager coats all you’d find is half a packet of condoms and the car keys.” Sherlock flushed to the roots of his hair, and Harry turned a gleefully wicked grin onto Mycroft. “Huh. Exactly like a traffic light.”

Mycroft found his face giving her a conspiratorial grin in reply.

John, Harry and Mary left for their little stargazing ramble. Daddy, despite being Christmas cook, joined them in the kitchen.

Four Holmeses. In the kitchen. Going about the routine of tidying, cleaning, putting the room to rights. Bickering and teasing but without cruelty. With rather a lot of affection, really.

 _Imagine the Christmas dinners_ , he’d once said, so snide and exasperated.

He had never, in all his days, imagined one like this.

*  
The rain had stopped and the clouds had disappeared. John might have taken it for a sign, except for hard experience. It had been a cloudless night the day Harry set the house of fire. In Afghanistan, stars spangling hard and bright in a velvet black sky had been the harbinger of more than one insurgent assault. He’d been with a medical convoy once, pinned down for an hour on a mountain road, before air support drove the insurgents back. Two patients and a young corporal had died before they made it down the mountain again.

But here they were at the Holmes’s cottage, full of rich food, lovingly prepared. They were alive. For now, they were safe. If he couldn’t undo the past, at least he could do this, now. Look into the night sky and remember the names of the stars.

His right arm was around Harry’s shoulders, holding her close, while he rubbed her arm vigorously to keep her warm. His left arm was around Mary, pressed close to him. They all looked up into the sky.

He identified Orion, a shape he first learned from a night in Hampstead Heath. Harry reminded him where to find Castor and Pollux in Gemini.

“All those fires in the sky,” Harry said quietly. “I bet the cavemen used to think, maybe it’s not so lonely out there. All those campfires.”

John tugged her against his side and kissed her head. “You’ll be okay, Harry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Johnnie,” she said, staring at those glittering distant fires, “I’ve never been okay.”

He pressed his nose into her hair and didn’t contradict her.

“I used to think,” said Mary into the silence, “That being an only child sucked. Now I look at you and John, and Sherlock and Mycroft, and I _know_ it did. My Dad took off and abandoned us when Mum was sick, so it was just me. I know it’s been really, really rough on you, Harry. But I’d have given anything to have someone like you around, back then.”

“Someone to set fire to all the awful shit, you mean?” A shade of bitterness in her tone.

“Someone to have my back. Someone to fight for me.” She turned to them. “What happened to you two should never have happened. But I’m grateful neither of you were alone for it.”

Brother and sister stared at her with almost identical expressions: furrowed brow, bitten inner lip, incredulous at first, then contemplative.

“You know, other than being a half-arsed arsonist,” said Harry suddenly, “I’m not a bad programmer, and I play a mean game of darts.”

“So when your hands are better, who should I bet on between you and John?”

“Me,” the siblings said simultaneously.

Harry shoved her elbow into John’s side and he sidestepped, laughing.

“Hang on!” Harry cried, moving aside to pat at her pockets. “John, come check the lining! I think I found Mycroft’s stash of Polo mints!”

John didn’t believe her for a second, so Mary’s look of puzzled inquiry set both him and Harry off, giggling, shoulders heaving. That set Mary laughing at the pair of them.

“I’m going to enjoy having a sister,” she decided.

John knew it wasn’t necessarily going to be as easy as that, but he knew that he intended to try. He’d almost forgotten how much he’d enjoyed having a sister, too.

He gave Harry a resounding, smacking kiss on the forehead, and Mary and gentler, sweeter kiss on the lips.

“Let’s get inside. I’m freezing my bollocks off.”

They strode back to the cottage. Harry unlinked her arms from his and dashed on ahead. Hiding her expression, John expected. John thought he heard Harry mutter something cheeky to herself, about having Sherlock and Mary checking on his bollocks later, but he preferred to pretend he hadn’t. Mary just gave him that sassy, pert grin of hers, the knowing flash of her eyes, and he couldn’t help an impish grin of his own in reply.

*

Sherlock rinsed his mouth of toothpaste. He dropped his toothbrush into the holder. Idly, he noted his heartrate. The dilation of his eyes. His surprising feeling of shyness about returning to the bedroom.

He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, contemplating the blended awkwardness and excitement of this sudden sexual awakening of his.

In his usual way, he’d gone from zero to a hundred in the space of a week; of an afternoon, really. Yet that brief coupling with John in the back of the land rover had been as satisfying as last night’s interrupted bed-sharing. Not merely the animal impulse of sex, though the sheer urgent physicality of it had been exhilarating. He hadn’t expected the emotional component to be so significant.

Because, _oh god_ , that feeling of falling, _falling_ ; the ghost of Moriarty tipping him once more over the edge – before John pulled him back from the brink. John shaking and keening in his arms. _Don’t you fall again_. No, _god_ **no** , to everything that led to that first fall; to the terror of the jump that all his well laid plans couldn’t assuage - _If this doesn’t work I’m truly dead_ – that year away with Agra and the desperate days and all those times nearly dead - _I don’t want to die, let me live, let me live_ \- at the brink of never seeing John again.

And then in the land rover, the heat of John beneath him, his skin and the hair on his legs, his belly, his crotch, the texture of him and the sound of him, and _yes, here, now, real._ Sherlock had hardly noticed the twinge of the wound in his side. Any pain had been overwhelmed with taste/touch/sound/scent/sight of his body and John’s in the flickering light and the knowledge, crashing down on him in waves.

_We are safe. We are all here, John and Mary and me. Safe. Home. Safe. Together. Moriarty and Magnussen gone. We can have this now. We can._

Sherlock washed his hands, dried them and dispensed with residual nerves. He crossed the hall to the room in which the whole household knew he would spend the night with John and Mary. Slightly embarrassed by their knowing. More than a little proud, too, as though he’d done something clever.

_Two extraordinary people love me as well as each other. I **have** been clever._

He stepped quickly, soundlessly, into the bedroom and stopped. John was holding Mary in a close embrace. Not erotic at all, but a deeper intimacy. He couldn’t see Mary’s expression, but her body language spoke of vulnerability and trust. The tenderness in John’s expression was profound.

Awkward. Sherlock felt _awkward;_ out of place; that he was not part of this moment and didn’t belong here after all. He reached behind him for the door handle.

And then John looked at him, and extended a hand towards him, his blue eyes as full of tenderness for Sherlock as for Mary. Full of vulnerability and trust.

Sherlock reached for John’s hand and allowed himself to be gently tugged into the embrace. He pressed himself along Mary’s back, pressed his cheek to her hair, wrapping his arms around her and John both, John’s arms likewise encompassing Mary but including him.

Mary breathed a shuddering sigh. She sniffed. _Oh. She’s crying. Have I done something…?_

“Okay, sweetheart?” John murmured.

“I’m okay,” she replied, “I’ll be okay. Just be with me.” She turned her head slightly, towards Sherlock. “And you stay away from balconies for a while, all right?”

“All right,” he said, instead of any of the half dozen smartarse replied that came to mind. She nodded and nudged into the weight of his cheek on her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you.” Her second declaration was made to John as she kissed his jaw.

“Mycroft can find you someone to talk to about it,” said John softly.

“I’ll be fine. If I keep away from open fireplaces for a while.” Her usual spirited laugh choked away, and Sherlock pressed closer against her, drew John closer in, and he could feel it as the tremor subsided. He kissed her head, then he pressed his lips against John’s forehead.

It was decided that John would be in the middle again. Sherlock instantly resolved that he would like to be in the middle, if not tonight, then soon. To be surrounded by them, cocooned between them, held between them even as they slept.

Another time. There would be so many other times now.

Sherlock thought that despite earlier anticipation, they’d only sleep again. They were in his parents’ house after all. All the inherent awkwardness of that, and of Mycroft noticing, and of filterless Harry saying something gauche designed to discomfit everyone over breakfast, combined with physical and emotional exhaustion: the three of them in a warm huddle of sleep was all he expected.

But once in bed, soft sweet kisses goodnight grew languidly deeper, John in great contentment kissing each of them in turn; arching his neck a little so that the one currently unkissed could kiss his throat, his jaw, his ears. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s throat as Sherlock leaned across John’s body to kiss Mary, and then he gasped as Sherlock’s hand, which had moved to support his weight as he leaned, pressed across hip and crotch.

“Sssh,” Mary said, and her hand slid between John’s legs, “They’ll hear.”

She might as well have issued a challenge, and the spark in her eye as she grinned at Sherlock convinced him that this was exactly what she’d done.

A lot of touching ensued. Hands and mouths on lips and cheeks, chests and nipples; bellies and thighs and bottoms. Lengths of leg and torso and arm pressed close, sliding. Fingers through hairs soft and others short and springy.

Pyjamas were carefully shed, amid inadequately suppressed murmurs of pleasure and still less adequately suppressed giggles.

Mellow, content, wordless sounds full of loving meaning. Sherlock’s long fingers slipping into Mary’s wetness, John’s hand over his, guiding him, showing him how to please their love, each of them teasing her breasts, nuzzling and lipping her nipples as she arched, and kisses swallowing her gasps. Sherlock’s curled hand stroking John to orgasm while Mary fondled John’s balls and John bit Sherlock’s neck to muffle his cries; Mary playing with Sherlock’s nipples, sucking and rubbing while John licked and suckled below. Sherlock had to stuff his fist into his mouth to stem the shout when he came. Then so much soft, breathy laughter while Mary wiped them mostly clean with John’s discarded T-shirt. Pyjamas relocated in the darkness and re-donned. 

Mary and John and Sherlock settled back into the bed, not really big enough for three but they snugged in close and took ages to get comfortable. That was mostly an excuse to touch more, cuddle more closely, enjoy the sudden new _them_ that was evolving. They drifted to sleep, sated, warm.

_Home. Safe. Together. We have this now._

*

Giles Holmes woke with a start and stared into the darkness while his breathing and his heartrate settled.

This dream was familiar, and all its variations. Hearing his little girl crying out for him, and he, in his bare feet, searching and searching and searching through the long grass, running over stones that made his feet bleed, and never finding her. Of course, that’s not how it had happened. Eurus had died before they found her poor little body. He’d never heard her cries, if she’d made any, down there in the dark well where she’d drowned.

Sometimes it was Sherlock he heard, sometimes Mycroft. Sometimes all three, in different directions, all calling for their Daddy to help them. And he would run and run with bleeding feet across the stones in the cold and sunless fields, and never find them.

He would love Mary and John for this alone: that they were there for his wayward youngest, who had so often been so lost. All that giggling last night, and the occasional faint squeak of the bed, all a bit embarrassing he supposed, but he and Leandra had only kissed and cuddled in bed themselves, happy that their boy was with people who treasured him. Sherlock and Mycroft were never going to be ordinary, to find ordinary happiness. Let them find unconventional happiness then, as long as they found it.

Giles sighed, thinking of Mycroft, for whom happiness was the most elusive. Where Giles had nightmares of failing his children, Mycroft had somehow made himself responsible for them all, turning himself into a parent before he was a teenager. Last night Leandra had decided not to berate their eldest over all that sneaky smoking. She and Giles agreed: maybe better let him indulge with Harry Watson than make any move to jeopardise what seemed a potential friendship.  No matter how odd, and no matter how damaged that poor girl seemed to be, this was to be encouraged. Lord knew that their son was damaged, too, wounded too young by grief too deep. In some ways, Giles had lost a son as well as a daughter the day that Eurus died.

Giles closed his eyes but knew he wouldn’t sleep again. Not without a walk. Perhaps hot chocolate.

“Bunny?” came Leandra’s sleepy, concerned voice.

“Everything’s fine, Ducky.”

“Have you been dreaming again?”

“A warm drink will settle me.” He gave her darling face a kiss, and her pursed lips bussed the air. He kissed her nose and left her drifting back to sleep.

Giles rose, pushed his feet into his slippers and went downstairs.

He heard her there in the living room before he saw her. Harry Watson, sitting in the darkness in front of the cooling embers of the fire. A book was open on her lap. It looked like Mycroft’s old astronomy book, Patrick Moore’s _Astronautics_. She must have found it in the box under the table in the spare room. Restless, probably, and curious, just as Mycroft, Eurus and Sherlock had always been, so he couldn’t bring himself to be affronted.

That was the box, Giles thought, full of the books and toys Mycroft had put away one summer in a fit of growing up too soon. He’d loved the stars so much as a boy, until Eurus died. Giles remembered Mycroft taking this book away from Sherlock and telling him how useless the stars were.

Giles cleared his throat a little as a warning, so he wouldn’t startle Harry when he spoke.

“Hot chocolate, Harry?”

She started anyway. Giles saw that her hands were shaking and her eyes had a wild look. And so sad. She reminded him of Sherlock in those terrible early days of the drugs and withdrawal.

“Ah…”

“I can’t settle back to sleep, myself, when I wake in the middle of the night, without hot chocolate. Leandra swears by chamomile tea, but it tastes like grass clippings to me. Warm milk or Horlicks are fine, but I have a secret recipe for hot chocolate.  Belgian dark chocolate chips, a dollop of cream in the milk, nutmeg, vanilla sugar and a shake of cinnamon to finish. I used to make it for Sherlock and his friend Victor when they were little, and they’d pop right off on a nap in their pretend pirate ship.”

“Oh. Um. Don’t go to any bother.”

“It’s no bother at all. I’m making it for myself, after all.”

“Okay, then.”

She followed him to the kitchen and sat at the table while he puttered about with the blue enamel milk pan and all the ingredients. While the milk warmed, he brought the Duck tin to the table and opened it.

Harry stared at the contents – fruit mince pies and a plastic-wrapped portion of jam roly poly – and began to smile even as her brow furrowed. “I thought your missus fed all of this to the ducks.”

“Oh heavens, no, we don’t do that. It’s very bad for them. They have oats and barley and sometimes frozen peas for a treat.” He tapped on the lid of the tin, with its image of a flock of mallards rising on the wing from a reedy pond. “We’ve had this since Mycroft was a boy. Here you go.” He put a slice of the pudding and a mince pie on a plate for her.

“I couldn’t,” she protested, “I’m full as boot.” But she nibbled at the edge of a mince pie anyway. “Thanks again for dinner last night,” she said after a moment. “I can’t remember the last time I had a proper Christmas dinner.”

“You’re very welcome. It’s such a treat to be able to cook for the family. Leandra does the baking, of course. I don’t seem to have the knack.” He poured the hot chocolate and with a deft flick, sprinkled them with cinnamon.

Harry took the cup carefully, balancing it in the wells of her bandaged hands rather than try to use her blistered fingers. She hissed and winced a little anyway. The painkillers must be wearing off.

“Oh. Would you rather I find a straw?” he began to rise, to look for one.

“No. No, I’m good. Thanks.”

He sat again and they sipped hot chocolate in silence for a while. Harry’s expression turned inward again. The sadness returned, with that edge of something wild behind. 

“Mycroft says he’ll recommend someone to mend your kitchen and the other damage,” said Giles, startling her out of her reverie again. “It’ll probably be a fright to live in for a while.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve lived in worse.”

Giles thought that this was probably very unhappily true. “This may seem very forward of me,” he said, “You don’t know us after all, but Leandra and I was discussing it at bedtime. What with your poor hands being a bother, and they must hurt a good deal, but if you would consider it, we’d consider it an honour and we’d very much love to have you.”

Harry blinked at him, and Giles realised he’d done that thing again, talking around the issue.

“That is, Leandra and I would be very glad to have you with us for however long it takes for your home to be restored to order, if you like. As I say, I know it’s rather forward.”

She stared round-eyed at him and he felt a bit foolish.

“No offence taken at all if you’d rather not. You must have friends of your own who could help…”

“Actually, no.” She swallowed, like she hadn’t meant to say that. She grimaced, and added, “That is, the last person I thought was a friend just committed suicide after trying to murder me, so…” she barked a harsh laugh, “And I’m a bad risk. House guests and fish after three days, yeah?”

“Well, I’m sure it can stretch to at least ten, maybe as much as twenty,” he flashed her a smile. “We call it a cottage, but as you can see, it’s very large for two. Leandra and I rattle around in it most days, and we won’t be at all offended if you’d rather keep to yourself most of the time. We appreciate it’s been a very terrible few days for you, and that some quiet might be appreciated. We won’t mind cooking for you – it’s always a pleasure to cook for others, you know – and you’re most welcome.”

Harry’s expression seemed almost angry, which might have been puzzling, except his sons looked like that sometimes, and often for similar reasons.

“Why are you so kind?” And yes, there was the familiar anger behind the confusion.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

She scowled at his response. “Everyone wants something. Usually for free. What do you want? Because I’m not some substitute for-“ and then her jaw snapped shut, as her brain caught up with what her mouth was saying. “Fuck. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m trash. I’m just your basic fucking trash. Fuck.”

“You’re not a substitute for Eurus,” he said gently, trying not to make her skittish. “You’re a brave young woman who has had a difficult time. I suppose if there is something I want, it’s that I want to thank you for how you are with Mycroft.”

Harry shook her head, though there was that feisty smile at the corner of her mouth again. Her brother did that too. Such a spirited family.

“I didn’t mean to bite you,” she said, “I’m a bit of a bitch, and I’m kinda fucked up. The nicer people are to me the worse I am.”

“My boys find it hard, too,” Giles said. “Kindness. They got precious little of it outside this house. Often their schoolmates would pretend kindness only to get close enough to give them more hurt. They mistrust it, or they did. Sherlock sees so much. Sometimes he sees things that aren’t there. I suppose it’s strange, this relationship he has with John and Mary, but it suits them, don’t you think? My boys were never going to find happiness the ordinary way, if they ever found it at all.

“Well don’t go getting ideas about me and Mycroft. I’m gay and he’s a stuffed shirt.” But her warning look was full of unruly humour.

“I shall warn Leandra to cease making plans for the wedding immediately. It will break her heart, mind you. She longs to see Mycroft in lavender spats.”

There, that made her laugh.

“Mycroft wanted to be an astronaut, you know,” Giles continued, “He’d recite all the names of the stars at breakfast, and he made them into a song for Eurus when she was little. I don’t think he’s looked at the sky since she died, except to decide if he needs his umbrella. And he always has his umbrella.” He grinned slyly. “Gentleman spy.”

“A baby Patrick Moore.”

“Very much so.”

“Do you mean it? About me staying?”

“For as long as you need. Leandra and I can drive you home to London to fetch your things.”

“You know I’m an alcoholic, right? I’m a bitch and a flake and I can’t be trusted.”

“If you say so, Harry, but I doubt you can surprise us at all. You’ve met our sons. I love them, but I have no illusions.”

“Okay. On one condition. You’ll tell me if it’s too much. You can toss me out if I fuck it up. It’s okay.”

Giles felt it very much wasn’t; but it was an easy promise to make. Perhaps he could make a small difference to Harry Watson, in the way he hadn’t been able to make to his children. Perhaps not. Worth a shot, he thought. Kindness, he’d learned, was never the wrong choice, even if it went terribly wrong. After all, fate was finally showing his boys a little kindness in return, and heavens knew they needed it. Perhaps they would even one day learn to show a little kindness to themselves. 

“I accept your condition,” he said, “Though since we can’t shake on it, we will seal it with a grave nod.” He very, very gravely lifted his chin and brought it down in a stern and stately nod.

Harry barked another laugh, then solemnly followed suit.

Later, when he went back to bed, Leandra stirred again.

“Everything all right, Bunny?”

“Harry has agreed to stay.”

“Good. Someone to help us eat the Christmas leftovers.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Yes, my Duck.”

Leandra only wrinkled her nose in her best adorable smile. He settled beside her and held her hand, and fell asleep while planning what to make his family for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Mycroft's childjood book, Astronautics: http://dreamsofspace.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/astronautics-1960.html


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (image) Harry taught John the names of the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicola Walker is the Harry Watson of my head.


End file.
